A Heart of Broken Glass
by FoalyWinsForever
Summary: Or the 10001st Hunger Games, if you're nostalgic. Head Gamemaker Deyna Balthazar has a whole lot of awful ideas about how to kill your darlings. The Games have begun.
1. Prologue

**Hello again, people I've interacted with before, and hello, people I don't know who are reading this. The administrative details are on my profile. Feeling lucky? ;) But first, meet your Head Gamemaker:**

Deyna Balthazar watched patiently as President Fife picked up the little sphere of metal, tossing and catching it casually.

"Ahem," he said gently.

Fife jumped at Deyna's voice, synthesized by the gas mask strapped over his red hair. "Ah! Oh. Balthazar. Yes, hello," he said coolly.

"That metal, sir."

Fife tossed and caught it again, trying to look suave, but barely managing to keep control of the thing. "What about it?"

"That's plutonium. Sir."

"Is it? Interesting, very interesting."

"Plutonium is radioactive, Mr. President. Perhaps you should go get dosed by the medics?"

Fife's lilac eyes widened. "… Is it?" he said again. He put the sphere down gently and scampered from the cell.

Deyna smiled and picked the sphere right back up. "Who's a good little demon core?" he cooed at the metal. "Is it you? Is it _you?_ Coochie coochie coo."

"Mr. Balthazar?"

He didn't look up. "Hmmmm?" he said slowly, spinning the plutonium ball on the table.

"I-Is that, er… is that really the demon core, sir?" the technician stammered, peeking through the bars of the cell from the grimy hallway. The man's uncertain voice did not match the gas mask he wore, identical to Deyna's, designed to be as intimidating as possible.

"Oh, yes. I suppose it's not exactly recognizable on sight, is it?" Deyna mused. "Get some masking tape and label it. Maybe it'll give the District Fives a jump."

The techie blinked, nodded, and darted off.

The Head Gamemaker kept spinning the core idly, watching the hallway through the bars. The technician's footsteps faded out in one direction, Fife's in the other. The wrong way, incidentally. Deyna sighed, gave the plutonium a last fond pat, and squinted down the dark corridor.

"Sir?" he called.

"Yes?" Fife's voice echoed back from around the corner, a bit more high-pitched than before. Deyna smirked. The place already had such _atmosphere. _It wasn't quite as filthy as he wanted, and his favorite tricks weren't installed yet, but this arena had personality. It told a _story. _He was very excited.

Deyna stepped over a dead body. Real and very fresh, for that extra verisimilitude. "This way, sir."

"Which way?" Fife said dolefully. "You're echoing."

"… I'll just come find you, sir," Deyna said, taking a deep breath to fortify his patience. He adjusted his gas mask and set off down the hallway, noting that Fife still wasn't wearing a mask. Hopefully he wouldn't be held responsible for that. Who _could _hold him responsible? Not Fife, certainly.

He rounded a corner to find Fife standing in the middle of one of the tiny lead vaults, his lilac suit streaked with black dust. Fife looked up. "_There _you are."

Deyna nodded. "The exit is back this way, sir."

"Hmm," Fife said. "How close are we to having the arena completed?"

"According to the engineering team… fifty-eight percent," Deyna said, checking his computer. "Most of the infrastructure is done, but there's a lot of wiring and such left. We're right on schedule."

"Cameras?"

"Still working on the mounts and determining placing for the hidden ones."

Fife nodded. And lunged. Before Deyna knew what was happening, he was pinned to the wall by his neck, his gas mask torn off.

"M-Mr. President?" he choked out, tugging at Fife's hands unsuccessfully.

"All this plutonium, Balthazar. Where'd you get it?"

Deyna gulped. "Er."

"Do you expect me to believe… that you did business with District Thirteen… just to stock your Hunger Games?" Fife snarled in his face.

"Not with the government!" Deyna protested. "A breakaway group."

"_You have access to rogue groups in District Thirteen?"_

"… Er."

"And you thought _I _was stupid."

"In my defense, you _did_ do a remarkably convincing impression of it. Sir."

"Works like a charm, doesn't it?" Fife grumbled.

"It does," Deyna said agreeably, well aware that he had been thoroughly outdone. He'd been so convinced Fife was a nonentity that he'd never noticed the man was nearly twice his size.

"So what's your plan?"

Deyna blinked. "Pardon?"

"Communicating with District Thirteen? Hoarding weapons-grade plutonium? I can promise you your life if you tell me everything. No torture. You have my word."

"I… sir, no. It isn't like that. Not at all. I promise you, I am not a traitor."

"Why the contact with Thirteen, then?"

Deyna blinked, wondering if he could be misinterpreting the question. "Because I needed the materials, sir. For the Games."

Fife's eyes narrowed. "You've always loved going behind my back, Balthazar."

Deyna shrugged apologetically, coughing a little when doing so made Fife inadvertently tighten his grip. "I thought you were an idiot. It was fun," he said matter-of-factly. "No need for any of that anymore. I mean… think about it, sir. I believe we've established that you tricked me fair and square. But did I ever try to assassinate you or anything like that while I was under the impression that you were a drooling idiot? I did not. Sir."

"You'll share every bit of information you have about Thirteen, and you'll explain why you didn't do so before." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course, sir. I can do the latter right now. I didn't tell you because I thought you'd mess things up, and it would be better to save the information to share with the next President."

Fife considered that. "Understandable. You'll also consent to observation, physical and technological."

"Of course, sir. I don't mind at all. Always happy to show my work, mm-hmm," Deyna gritted out, standing on tiptoe to keep his windpipe working. "Certainly."

"You're either being totally genuine or plotting my murder."

Both, as it happened. Deyna was quite serious about having no political aspirations; his concerns began and ended with the Games. But it also happened that he preferred _not _to be choked, and both his trachea and his ego were already bruised.

He looked away. "I just want to do my job, sir."

"And I'm sure you'll do it _brilliantly."_

Deyna risked a toothy smile. "Oh, me too, sir."

**Some things you should probably know: First of all, this will change to M as soon as I get all my tributes, because I know myself well enough to be sure there's plenty of torture, inappropriate jokes, and people making inappropriate jokes while torturing other people on the way. Secondly, I'll be researching as well as I can, but feel free to correct me if I get my facts wrong. Thirdly, if you get squeamish about your character dying horribly, consider submitting a younger one. At the risk of spoilers, I tend to have some mercy on them. If you submit someone fifteen-ish or over, don't get upset when I kill them in some awful way.**

**IT'LL BE FUN WOOOOO PARTY C'MON GO SUBMIT YOU KNOW YOU WANNA :D**

**Sidenote for people who've already submitted: Do you want me to write their Reaping, Justice Building, train ride, training, or interview? I forgot to put that on the form until a second ago.**


	2. More Prologue

**So uh, I just remembered that present tense is a thing in this fandom. Whoops. Let's just say all this intro stuff is a flashback or whatever, because I already wrote it and don't feel like changing it, and I'll switch to present once I start writing tribute POVs.**

Cleo's cackle rang out across the Gamemakers' office. "Get a load of _this _motherfucker."

Tibbi leaned over her shoulder to read the kid's profile. "Why, what's…? Oh my gracious to Betsy, what a _bastard._"

"But then there's her," Cleo said gleefully. "Oh, man. These two, man. We gotta make 'em fight."

Tibbi's face lit up. "Did you see the girl I found before, too? Maybe the two of them will ally, and, and… ooh, you just _know _the Careers will try and track him down once they figure out what's going on, and… This is gonna be _awesome."_

"Ahem."

They turned to find Deyna behind them, looking grumpier than usual and rubbing his neck.

"Good morning," Tibbi chirped.

"No," he grumbled. "Are you done with the roster yet?"

"Er," Cleo said.

"What's the holdup?"

"Scouting teams, sir. Bit of a mess, but it should all be under control soon."

"Soon," Deyna repeated doubtfully, throwing a glance at the tall man behind him.

"Who is that, by the way, sir?" Cleo asked, staring at the man unabashedly. The man's glasses were too dark to tell whether he was staring back.

Deyna swept past her. "A friend," he said airily.

"That's funny, because he sure looks like one of the President's personal thugs."

"I have friends in high places," Deyna sniffed. "I _am _in high places."

"You sure you're not just high?"

He considered it. "No. Just get me that damn roster, would you?"

"Doing our best, sir."

"Somehow that doesn't fill me with confidence."

Cleo made a face at his back.

xxx

Hundreds of miles away, an Avox woman died. She was the ninth that day.

An engineer in a gas mask turned up the portable fluorescent floodlight by the door. The stark glare splashed across fiberglass body bags piled on the concrete floor, the first few lined up neatly, later ones haphazardly slung down when it became apparent that the death rate would be immense. A Geiger counter clicked gently in the corner, the reading slightly higher since the dying woman had been brought in.

He punched a needle into the woman's arm, drew blood into a tiny vial, and plugged the vial into a device on his belt. "Damn," he said.

"How much?"

"Twelve grays."

The second man whistled, his mask rendering the sound as a soft shriek. "Where was she?"

"Let me check." The first engineer scanned the tracker in the woman's arm, pulling up her assignment history. "Looks like the workshop room, mostly. Yeah, we'll have to bring that down; anyone who spends a lot of time in there will be someone the Gamemakers want to stay alive for a while. What's in there?"

"Some cesium-137, I think. Might've been polonium, too. In capsules, though; shouldn't be more than a millisievert an hour. Just to give 'em a jump if they get a counter working."

"Some of the capsules must be leaking." The engineer glanced around the the room, a vault they'd been forced to set aside for Avox corpses. "Hey, Avox, c'mere."

A teenage girl with a torn paper surgical mask tensed in the corner, crouching over the body of an older boy.

"Yes, you. Leave him alone a minute; I promise he won't run off on you."

The girl stood up and crept over warily. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair limp and full of gray dust. Her posture conveyed the exhaustion of someone who'd been so scared for so long that she'd lost the ability to do anything but what she was told.

"Pick up a Geiger counter and go to the workshop. That's section 3A, second level. There are cabinets in the back of the room with little gray balls loose in them, like marbles. Hold them up to the counter. If the light turns red, bring the ball to Contamination."

The girl's eyes went dead.

"Quickly, please," the engineer reprimanded.

She tilted her head, giving him a questioning look.

"What?"

She drew her finger across her throat and gave him the look again.

"Will it kill you, you mean?"

She nodded.

He considered it. "I doubt it. Hold it far away from your body and walk fast. Can't hurt to use tongs if you can find them. Don't eat it and don't skip any mammograms for the rest of your life, sweetie."

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then swallowed hard, nodded, and trudged off, staring at the ground.

The engineer heaved an impatient sigh. "I wish they wouldn't _look _at me like that."

"Makes you feel like a monster," his colleague agreed. "What do they want us to do, go after it ourselves? We do our job; they can do theirs."

"Exactly. It's not like… yeah," he nodded.

"Yeah."

**I've got about half a roster. Please give me more characters to kill! Everyone wins! Except no!**

**Just FYI, I'm very open to suggestions on pregame stuff. Once the Games get going my evil secret plans are set in motion, but if you've got ideas for how your person's Justice Building visit or training or whatever I'm writing for them goes, I'm happy to hear them.**

**Oh, and I still need my D1 and D2 guys, plus the D4 girls. Do my a favor and try to make them lethal, terrible people; my Career pack is alarmingly softhearted at the moment. Think Bad Guy by 3OH!3.**


	3. The Last Prologue

**The just-about-final (where'd you go, LokiThisIsMadness?) list is on my profile, with more information coming soon.**

Tibbi and Cleo watched with bated breath as Deyna flipped through the tribute profiles.

"Well?" Cleo prompted.

"Aren't they _great?" _Tibbi squealed.

Deyna stared at the tablet in his hands, his brow furrowed.

Tibbi's face fell. "Why aren't you squealing?"

"Tibbi?"

"Yes, Mr. Balthazar?"

"What did I say about choosing tributes you think are sexy?"

"You said not to do it."

"Did you listen to me?"

Tibbi chewed her lip. "Kind of…? Er… no."

"What does it matter?" Cleo protested. "The audience is happier. Tibs and I are happier. You're never happy. So what's the problem?"

"Cleo."

"What?"

"You Reaped a sadistic girl with a whip, a kook calling himself the Puppetmaster, and a _small army of pansexual pretty boys!"_

"… So?"

"AND ONE OF THE PRETTY BOYS ALSO LIKES TO WHIP THINGS!" Deyna screeched.

"What's your point?" Cleo said innocently.

"Oh, nothing," Deyna said, suddenly calm. "No problem at all. I can work with this, believe me. But I would like it noted that I did not ask to be put in this situation."

"Okay…?"

"And I cannot be held responsible for what is almost certainly about to happen."

"Fine."

"All I wanted was to run a nice set of Hunger Games," Deyna groaned. "That's all. Oh, great calamity kittens, what are the viewers going to think?"

"I don't think they'll mind. If they do, I'm sure they'll let you know."

"Yes. Fine. Whatever." Deyna flipped to the Cornucopia supply list and sat down hard.

"Now what?"

_"__WHO PUT HANDCUFFS IN THE CORNUCOPIA?"_

"They have legitimate strategic purpose!" Cleo sniffed. "Use your imagination."

"I'm trying not to."

"You're no fun."

"Don't test me."

**Seriously, you people sent in some very questionable people. I really, truly intended to behave myself with this story, but honestly, it'd be out of character for at least some of these guys NOT to jump each other. XD It won't be anything as bad as Deyna is implying, but I'm not above writing a sex scene or two, so speak now or forever hold your peace if you've got a problem with that, or just don't want it for your tribute in particular. Whatever I do will be in accordance with the gender/sexuality/etc. of your tributes, and not graphic.**

**If you haven't told me what pre game you want written and you have a strong opinion, now would be the time to let me know. Reapings begin next chapter! Get pumped! I'm pumped!**


	4. Reaping: Luka

**So the consensus seems to be that we're cool with pretty boys doing questionable things with whips and handcuffs. Well… this one's more pointy and/or cute than pretty, but let's get this party started and may God have mercy on our souls.**

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

It's like getting up for water in the middle of the night. You can't be scared if you just don't _think _about it. There are no monsters under the bed until I start to wonder. The Hunger Games are nothing to worry about as long as I keep staring at the asphalt and playing with the zipper of my jacker and concentrating on Dad's hand on my shoulder.

He does this every year. Fights his way to the edge of the roped-off sections, sometimes literally. I've seen him pick people up off the ground and put them down somewhere else just so he can stand next to me. It's not that he's a violent guy, really; he's just six foot four and built like a bar fight waiting to happen and maybe just the tiniest little bit overprotective of me. I don't mind. He cares. I'm lucky.

Now, if only I could inherit his height and build, and not just the rose-red hair. His arm is as big around as my thigh, and I have to stretch my neck and think positive thoughts to hit five foot six.

Well, at least it's a nice day, I muse. One of the nice things about living in northern District Three. You could easily freeze to death in the winter, of course, but in early summer it's just lovely. Except the whole Hunger Games thing. That's bad.

But there are so many people, and Dad would never let me take out tesserae even though we sort of need them, so—Wait. No. I'm thinking about it. I'm not gonna think about it.

"Did you feed Chekhov?" Dad says, probably just to break the tense silence between us.

"Yeah. He'd let me know if I didn't."

There's still a hole in the wall from where we busted through it to pull the complaining cat out a few years back. No clue how he got there or where he came from, but he's ours now. He talks a lot.

The massive screen at the front of City Seventeen's square flashes on. A few people cheer, probably just happy to get it over with, but there's an angry muttering and the cheers go silent.

Suddenly the whole crowd starts clapping. I can't see what's going on over the shoulders of the boys in front of me no matter how much I jump up and down. It's a little claustrophobic, down here at the bottom of a well of heads and shoulders.

"Peacekeeper onstage," Dad says in my ear. "Held up a sign saying 'applause.'"

Oh. That makes sense, I guess. The stage is there for in case someone from here is Reaped, decked out with a podium and banners so they'll have something to film.

The Mayor appears on the huge screen, big and high enough that even I can see it. He reads the Treaty of Treason in a rapid-fire monotone and hands the microphone to the escort before practically teleporting offstage. _I feel you, buddy, _I want to say. _I wouldn't wanna be near her either._

Our escort is more or less naked. I would be okay with that, even though she's not the youngest, fittest person in the world. Inner beauty and expressing yourself and so on. No problem. The issue is the crazy glowing purple demon eyes. I'm pretty open-minded, I guess, but I draw the line at demonic possession.

Her voice is wet. She's miles away, but I can practically feel her spitting all over the crowd. I want to take a shower. Everyone sort of flinches and hunkers down and waits it out until she gets to the part we give a fuck about.

"Ladies first, of _course," _she declares, snapping her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Oh, let me just… this one? Hmm, no, I don't care for the way it's folded. This…? Ugh, no, it's so… so… I don't like it. Ah, now _this _one!"

There's a collective cringe from the girls' side of the square. I think of everyone over there I care about. Too many. Usually it's a good thing, but not today.

"I like this one," she explains. "Look at this delicate fold. I just _know _this tribute will be equally delicate and beautiful. I bet we'll all fall in love!"

I can practically hear the crickets chirping, both here in City Seventeen and onscreen in City One.

"The lucky lady is…"

Pause. Pause pause pause. Of course. I'm getting angry at her, and I don't _get _angry.

"… From City Eleven…"

Everyone holding their breath lets it go. The screen splits, half of it staying in City One, the other half going to Eleven. They've tried to tidy up. They haven't succeeded. I think there's blood on the backdrop, and the stage is deserted.

Our escort blinks. "Ahem. Anyone home?"

"Coming! Yes. Here." A disheveled woman sprints into the frame, adjusting the microphone on her podium. It sparks a bit. She doesn't blink. Possibly because she's got a black eye. "Ready when you are."

For a moment I hear a scream and a series of gunshots before whoever's editing the sound from Eleven manages to filter them out. The woman's expression doesn't change from its frozen smile.

"Yes, okay," the escort says testily. Well, maybe she shouldn't have picked someone from Eleven, then. I'm from the bad part of City Seventeen, I guess, but City Eleven is hell. You get mugged on my street. You get kidnapped and sold off for spare parts over there.

The smiling woman is replaced by a crowd shot. They're struggling to find people who aren't glaring or bloody, but it's impossible. It pans over the twelve-year-old girls hopefully, then cuts away when it finds one of them tossing up a middle finger and two more feeling each other up in the corner of the pen.

Our escort takes a let's-just-get-this-over-with-dammit breath. "Viss Bardier!" she calls.

It takes the camera a second to find the girl and I almost laugh when it does. There's no fear or even sadness in her expression. Just flat disgust and a bit of contempt, like the Capitol has dared to ruin her plans for the day and has no idea who it's messing with. The set of her jaw and the way she cracks her neck when she steps forward strikes me as dangerous. No reaction shot from her family and friends; she must be Work Group. She's dark-haired, tan-skinned, on the short side, but muscular. Her T-shirt might have been white once.

She takes the stage with a bit of a swagger, staring at Smiling Lady. "Now what?"

Smiling Lady blinks. "I don't know," she says through her insane grin. "Say something nice."

Viss looks right into the camera and gives it the most utterly humorless smile I've seen in my life. It's not just the absence of happiness. It's _rage. _More than she could've mustered in the last minute or so. I think she's one of those slow-burning people, all rock and metal on the outside, with a white-hot core.

"Well, hey. I'm Viss," she says flatly to all of Panem. The smile takes on the hint of a tight, but oddly weary smirk. "Guess you're gonna fall in love with my delicate beauty any second."

I feel bad for even thinking it right now, but she's not bad-looking. A little less fragile, skinny limbs or nice clothes or delicate anything, a little more wild curly hair, bruises on her forearms, thighs she could murder with, and that stony look in her eye that says she'd kill without blinking.

I blink as I realize I have a crush on her already. Dammit. That's… not good. For a few reasons. Why do I always chase the girls who might strangle me and leave me in an alley?

"Lovely to meet you, dear," the escort cuts in.

Viss gives her that same I-don't-have-the-energy-for-this-level-of-bullshit look. "Okay."

And she's gone. No more split screen. I want her to be okay, but I'm not sure what 'okay' would _be _for her.

"Time for the boys. From City Seventeen!"

The whole square jumps. We wait for the dramatic pause thing, but I think she's learned her lesson; she scoops up a piece and sticks with it. Dad's hands tighten on my shoulders. My stomach squirms. It's okay. Don't think. I have no control over the situation anyway; I can just close my eyes and relax and it'll all be over and it'll be okay–

"Luka Skade!"

Ohhh. _That's _the flaw in my strategy of not thinking about it. I'm zero percent prepared for this.

I can do the tough-guy thing when I need to. District Three does that to you. If I could only keep my shit together, I'd come off as the scrappy little peacock-haired punk kid, just like everyone else. Flash a switchblade and wink at people and lick my lips and do the whole routine.

I _could _do that, if I were ready for it. But I'm not. So what I actually do it stand there in shock, tears in my eyes, as the taller boys around me back away and Dad's arms wrap around me protectively.

Uh-oh.

For a second I forget how much trouble I'm in, because I know him well enough to guess he's about to get himself in some more immediate trouble of his own.

"Let go," I whisper.

He tightens his grip around my chest. Not a bat's chance in hell I can get him off me before the Peacekeepers reach us.

"Dad, it's fine, just…" It's not convincing. Less so because my voice is cracking and it's all I can do not to burst into tears.

"No," he says in disbelief. "They can't… You…"

I see white helmets and reflective visors cutting through the crowd. If they try to forcibly separate us, Dad is gonna start hitting them, and they're gonna shoot him, and… I know I won't literally die, but I'll die.

"Dad. Please. You'll see me in a minute, just _please _don't get shot."

"No. No, no, no, no, no…"

The Peacekeepers are surrounding us now. We get a grace period, I guess, before they start prying us apart with rifles.

I can't wrap my brain around the fact that Dad can't save me. People respect him, and not just because he's huge. No one's really well-off here, but I've always had an apartment to sleep in and the comfort that I won't wake up with my throat slashed. He got me antibiotics when I got sick. I still don't know how. I've almost never been hungry. I don't remember it, but people tell me he used to drink a _lot _but stopped when I was born. He's so happy when I get good grades, and I think he's convinced himself A's will somehow get me out of here. I can _feel _how much he cares about me and wants me to be safe and happy and all that, how much time and effort he's poured into my wellbeing, how proud he is of me.

And now I'm about to be literally torn from his arms, and it seems egotistical, but I don't know what he'll do without me. He doesn't care about anything else. I think I was his last hope.

Plus, of course, I'm terrified for my own sake. I'm not a killer. I don't want to die. I don't want to be scared for days and days, unable to trust anyone or anything. I _can't. _And I wanted to graduate, I wanted to get to know the girl down the hall, I wanted to finish the book I was reading. How can they do this?

The Peacekeepers are on me now. I want to make eye contact with the one right in front of me, but I only see my own pale, pointy face staring back at me in a panic. Even though I just told Dad to let me go, I shrink back toward him, closing my eyes and hiding my face against my shoulder and falling back on five-year-old logic. I'll just hide and let him handle it and it'll be okay.

"Mr. Skade," the nearest Peacekeeper chides. "You should be honored."

I gulp, willing Dad to stay calm with everything I have. Somehow he does. Then the Peacekeeper puts a hand on me.

_Crack._

For a moment, I just stare in disbelief. He actually cracked the man's helmet.

The Peacekeepers pounce on the opportunity, grabbing Dad's arm before he can wrap it around me again. They drag me out from the other one. I'm too shell-shocked to fight them myself, but when a Peacekeeper goes flying over my head I know Dad doesn't have the same problem.

I twist around to catch his eye. "_Stop," _I hiss. He won't hear me over the noise, but he'll get the point.

"What else can they do?" he snarls, smacking a rifle away from his chest and knocking the Peacekeeper to the ground after it. He pulls his foot back like he's about to deliver a hit even Capitol medicine might not be able to fix. Thirty fingers tense on thirty triggers.

"You think I can take you dying right now?" I yell at him.

Now I'm freaking out for real. That gets his attention. He stops fighting and immediately there are ten Peacekeepers on him.

"Don't arrest him," I plead with one of the ones holding me, of which there are four. Why? They're all twice my size and I haven't even tried to fight them. "C'mon, you know he didn't mean it, he just–"

The man gives me a sharp shake, like he's either warning me to shut up or just doesn't feel like listening. They hustle me up onto the little stage thing. That, I'm _definitely _not ready for. The crazy thought crosses my mind that Viss is almost certainly watching and I doubt she's impressed with the trembling, wide-eyed heap of skinny ginger that is me at the moment.

The crowd stares up at me. They're on my side and I know it, but I'm still overwhelmed by so many pairs of eyes on me at once. All of Panem is watching me, and it's the weirdest feeling. I'm not _important. _I'm just not. Hell, sometimes I'm not sure I'm even a real person. Suddenly I'm a celebrity in the worst way possible and it has to be some kind of awful joke.

And I can't find Dad in the crowd. I'm not even nauseous anymore, it's just a dull, heavy ache in my stomach. At least I'll know before I go. Either he'll show up at the Unity Building—City Seventeen's local subsidiary to the Justice Building in City One—or he won't. And then I'll know. And then either they'll have to pry us apart again, or I guess I'll sit there and cry, and then…

A smiling woman pops up next to me, holding out a microphone. She's identical to the one in City Eleven, or maybe not. I'm not thinking straight.

"You two twins?" I ask stupidly. My voice echoes across the square. I think my knees are about to give out.

The woman blinks. "Just say something," she hisses, shoving the microphone into my hands.

I gulp and turn to face the crowd again. All I need is something to say that isn't beyond idiotic, and for my voice to not crack while I say it. While the universe is granting total fucking miracles, I'd like a pony and a batch of snickerdoodles.

"Hey," I say.

So far, so good. My desperate search of the crowd pays off when I find a girl from my math class. We're casual acquaintances at best, but one time she smiled and said thank you when I picked up the pencil she dropped, and that's good enough for me. She gives me a weaker version of the same smile when she catches my eye, like she realizes she's my weird lifeline and wants to help as much as she can.

"So… I-I'm Luka," I soldier on. The girl next to her gives me a thumbs-up, and I smile a little even though I'm sick and terrified. "Dunno how much I'm s'posed to talk, but, uh, I know some of you, and I wanna see you again, so… wish me luck, yeah?"

I glance at Smiling Woman Number Two. She nods and holds out a hand for the microphone, gesturing me off the stage in the direction of the same Peacekeepers who had me before. For a second I balk, but what choice do I have? I walk right back over to them. One puts a light hand on my shoulder and guides me through a curtain behind the stage.

Now we're in a little fabric-surrounded tent thing full of behind-the-scenes stuff like cameras and makeup tables. The second the cloth swooshes shut behind me, I'm grabbed by both elbows and frisked. My knife clatters into a plastic bin.

"Hey, c'mon!" I protest. "Look, I'm not gonna do anything, but that's–"

"You can't take it in the arena," Smiling Woman Number Two snaps as she shoves through the curtain after me. She's not smiling anymore. "No weapons as tokens."

"But–"

"I'll take care of it. I will personally return it to you if you come back. Okay?"

It could be nice of her, except the way she says it is nasty, like she's mocking me for even entertaining the notion that I'm coming back alive. She's got a point. I might as well start getting used to the mental image of Dad opening a coffin with my body in it. And that's assuming _he's _still alive.

I don't want to break down in front of these people any more than I already have, but it's a close fight to keep something like composure. I wish I were tough. Really, truly tough to the core, not just the knife-twirling, peacocking punk bullshit I go along with because it's tough to find clothes that _don't _look like I'm about to start a street fight and goddammit maybe I like my hair blue sometimes. But that doesn't mean I can kill, or handle Dad dying. The thought of being in the arena all alone makes my guts feel like cold mud. I can't remember the last time I've been alone for more than five minutes at a time.

This is gonna _suck._

**They probably won't all be this long, sorry. My attention span is variable.**


	5. Reaping: Amaris

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

I love lifting. I'm good at it. I can barely make it through a set without stopping to admire all the weight on the barbell and thinking about how amazing I am.

I set the bar on the pins and sit up just in time to see Lowen try to clean a stupidly heavy bar, fail, stumble backwards, and almost drop it on herself.

"Wow," I comment. "Careful there."

"Shut up."

"And you're supposed to be volunteering today? That's stupid. I could kill you with my eyes closed."

Usually I'm not _quite _so openly aggressive, but here in the "specialty gym", with Lowen, I've got nothing to hide.

She rolls her eyes. "Try it."

"You're not worth prison."

"You mean you don't want to die," she snaps back.

I consider that. "You know? I don't like you."

"Good."

"I wasn't finished."

"I don't care."

"I'm volunteering."

She freezes. "What?"

"I. Am. Volunteering."

"You _better _not."

"And I'm closer to the stage," I say cheerfully. "So guess who's gonna get there first? Me. Tough luck. Shouldn't have been a bitch."

"Amaris," she says in disbelief. "I've been training since I was twelve."

"Me too."

"Volunteer next year!"

"Mmm… no."

"Amaris," she pleads. It's fake. She knows the best-case scenario of fighting me is injuries bad enough to take her out of the Games anyway, so she'll sacrifice her pride before turning to violence.

"Still no."

Lowen's face snaps back to its usual glare. She's so _ugly. _"Last chance," she hisses.

"Nope, sorry."

"Fine."

And just like that, we're fighting. She dives for me. I jump backwards onto the bench and shoot a kick at her solar plexus, sending her stumbling backwards into the dumbbell rack. She grabs one and swings at my head with it. I feel the breeze as it misses my forehead by an inch, noting that she just tried to kill me. Rude.

She tries to take me by surprise with a backhand, but I'm smarter; I catch her arm and twist it, dragging her off-balance and forcing her to let go of the weight so it doesn't break her wrist. It shatters the mirror. I crouch and twist her arm more, lifting her clear off the ground and flipping her over my shoulder. She lands on her side, and I've still got her arm; I follow her to the ground and put her in an arm bar. She taps out reflexively. Ha. I break her arm anyway.

To her credit, Lowen doesn't react aside from a sharp intake of breath. She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them to glare at me. "You _bitch," _she snarls. "What the fuck did you-?"

I twist her arm to the side, shattering her elbow beyond repair. Looks like she'll have to get a desk job. What a shame. Except, oops, that was her right arm, so she'll have to learn to live as a leftie too.

I can see it in her eyes as she gives up completely. It makes sense; I just destroyed all her hopes and dreams. Well, that's what you get.

"I hope you die," she says, her voice more a sigh than a snarl.

"Shut up or you _will _die."

"Fuck you. I don't care."

I consider my options. This whole complex is reserved for Careers and their trainers, sprawling along the clifftops overlooking the ocean. Lots of windows. The view is beautiful as I shatter her arm just a bit more, because I can.

I could kill her. But I might strain my back hiding her body; she's got to be pushing two hundred pounds. And where would I hide her? There are all sorts of weird nooks and crannies around here, but every twelve-year-old newbie has nothing better to do than explore them, convincing themselves they're the first one to ever have the brilliant idea of, say, opening a door. And _everyone's _here today. It's a miracle we're alone in the weight room.

I stand up with a grumpy sigh, stomping on Lowen's ribs for good measure. "Too much work," I decide. "Come up with a story. Maybe you fell down the stairs?"

"Maybe a crazy bitch picked a fight with me when I was tired from lifting."

"Oh, uh-uh. No slander. You'll regret it."

"What're you gonna do, break more bones?" she grits out, dragging herself to her feet. "You think I haven't lost track of the bones I've broken by now?"

"No. But if you do anything to piss me off, then when I come back–"

"You're not coming back," she cuts me off.

"_When I come back, _I'll ruin the lives of everyone you care about. You know I can. I'll be a Victor. You're nothing."

Her eyes narrow at the accusation, because she knows it's true. She didn't even go to normal school. All she's good for is fighting. Too bad she's not even good enough at that. "I don't care about anyone enough to lie about this," she says.

"Aw, c'mon, Lo-lo," I tease. "You've got a family. Don't be a brat."

There's no fire in the look she gives me. Suddenly she seems so much _older _than me, and I don't know why, and it pisses me off.

"So do you want a fucking war or not?" I hiss in her face. "If you tell anyone what happened to you, I _promise _you'll regret it."

She gives me that same calm look. "I'll think about it. Shouldn't you go get dolled up for your big moment?"

I gasp. "You're right! Thanks for reminding me! And remember, keep your mouth shut or I'll murder your little sister!" I yell over my shoulder. I might just do it anyway. Little sisters are the worst people in the world.

The run home is an interesting one. I have to keep adjusting my face from Extremely Aggressive Ragebeast Mode to Sweet Nice Girl. I've got appearances to keep up. Maybe a lost cause, since I'll be killing people in a week, but it's a habit. I'm fucking _charming._

My bedroom door is closed when I get home, but Amani is in there. I can feel it in the floorboards, feel her body heat through the door, hear her breathing… I'm not sure exactly how I know, but I know.

I throw the door open. She sits bolt upright in my desk chair, my jewelry box in her lap.

My bracelets. _She touched my bracelets._

"You little bitch," I hiss.

"No, Amaris, I was just–"

I cross the room in three strides and tear the box from her hands. "You are _so _lucky I don't–"

"I wasn't taking your things! I just lost my earrings and I thought maybe–"

"Don't interrupt!" I yell at her. "It's rude!"

"… Sorry," she squeaks.

Ugh. Whatever. Anyway, as much as I hate her, I could use an audience right now. "Guess what?"

"What?" she said cautiously, backing toward the door.

"I'm volunteering."

"I… yeah, I know."

"Today."

She blinks. "Really?"

"Really really!" I say brightly. "Excited?"

"Yeah."

My cheerful expression snaps to a scowl. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What? Nothing. I'm excited for you," she says with the least convincing endearing face I've seen in my life.

Ugh. _Ugh. _Can't I dial up the universe and see if I can murder Amani and get Mom back? Because that was _not _a fair trade the first time around. Amani is pathetic. She's worthless. At least if someone ever dies for me, they'll be dying for someone smart and strong and beautiful. Mom would be _proud _of me. I bet she'd have stopped the pregnancy if she knew how Amani was going to turn out.

Needless to say, I inform Amani of this regularly. The one thing I can't have is her daring to think she was worth it. Hell, maybe she'll get the point eventually and work on not being worthless. Try to be awesome like me. But I doubt it.

"Why aren't you leaving?" I snap.

Amani dithers around near my door. "So… you're sure?"

"Yep." I mean it.

She nods. "Okay."

"Out."

She leaves. Finally.

Now to important things: my dress, shoes, and jewelry. Red dress. Short. Tight. Black heels, because no one should be looking at my feet when they could be looking at the rest of me. A necklace. Bracelets. I _love _bracelets. And oh, look, there are Amani's favorite earrings, right at the bottom of my jewelry box. I honestly don't know how they got there—Dad must've found them and assumed they were mine—but I shrug and put them on. If I _do _die in the Arena, I'll have the small comfort that Amani will never see them again.

And off to the Reapings I go.

It's a glamorous affair. We're spread out over miles and miles of coastline. People have to travel from the farthest reaches of District Four. Good thing being a Career gets me and my family a house within walking distance of the stage. The crowd is thickest here, where you can actually see what's going on without having to watch the viewscreens stretching off down the shoreline, but people get out of my way.

Well, most of them. Some of them, the ones I've been nice to, smile and wave but stay in my way. But, to my eternal delight, I don't have to be nice anymore, so I can send them scattering, leaving a trail of bruises and hurt feelings in my wake. No one fights back, so I don't care. Want me to stop? Then _stop me. _Can't? Tough.

I plant myself smack in front of the stage in the Seventeens row, shoulder to shoulder with every other girl my age in the District. The boys are behind us, and the Eighteens behind them, thousands and thousands of each lined up in a single row.

No sign of Lowen. There fucking _better _not be.

But oh, wait, speak of the devil. There she is. Arm in a sling. Chopped-off hair still dirty. Slinking into the Eighteens line. There's a collective alarmed rustle at the sight of her so beaten up, because oh my gracious goodness heavens, if Lowen isn't volunteering, who's to save the dear sweet innocent children?

Everyone arrives at the same conclusion at once and starts sneaking glances at my "friend" Jaida as the other eighteen-year-old trained female. Jaida laughs and shakes her head to tell them tough luck, sorry, no. She trains for fun. No intention of saving anyone.

A few glance at me. I keep my face neutral. Nervous, even. Let them wonder.

But then I notice something _terrible._

It's Lowen's little sister. And her parents. Shoving through the crowd to get to her. They probably haven't seen her in years; I'm pretty sure she sleeps at the Training Center. They're hugging her, touching her hurt arm gently. I can't hear what they're saying, but I can imagine. _We're so happy you're not volunteering. Forget it. Come home._

Lowen hesitates, then wraps her good arm around her sister. I think she's crying.

Ugh. I might throw up. I am _definitely _making things unpleasant for the lot of them when I come back, and Lowen better know it.

At last Eliseo Hazen takes the stage. I barely have the self-control not to run up there right now, but I hold back, letting the tension build as he pulls a slip.

"Glashe Stranner!"

The cameras find her in seconds, giant screens zooming in on her. Average-looking fourteen-year-old. Oh look, she's crying too.

I clench my fists theatrically. Determined face. Dammit, I'm a _martyr._

"I volunteer!" I yell.

Eliseo jumps around in a flurry of turquoise and green. "Ooooh, District Four never disappoints! Come up here! Come on up!"

I do, nodding gravely. Warrior face. Brave and strong. Fuck yeah.

I wait to be handed the microphone. This is my moment. But he just returns to the Reaping Ball, leaving me standing there with my arm half-extended.

Well. Fine. Okay. Apparently they changed the rules. Well, there's still the interviews for Panem to learn that I'm not only brave and beautiful, but also brilliant.

"And the boys… Cor–"

"I volunteer!" Riley says, almost offhandedly, ambling toward the stage.

Eliseo smiles and nods. Then he stops smiling and holds a hand to his ear.

Riley makes it to the stage and frowns. He's at least two feet taller than Eliseo. "Something wrong?" he growls.

"Er," Eliseo says nervously. "You, er… you weren't the first volunteer."

The crowd gasps. So do I. This _is _interesting.

"Sorry," Eliseo squeaks.

Riley stares at him in disbelief. For a moment I think he's going to pick the escort out and toss him into the crowd. To my immense disappointment, he just takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, nods, and leaves the stage. But I know someone will pay the price for this, probably his girlfriend.

Eliseo breathes a sigh of relief. "Now, if we could see…?"

I can't help twisting around to the screens to see who my darkhorse partner will be.

Ooh.

I can work with this.

He's tall. A little too skinny, but with messy dark hair, dark eyes… even I'm impressed with his eyebrow game, and needless to say, my eyebrows are perfect. The black eye and streaks of blood on his clothes mar it slightly, but whatever. The look on his face says he's doing this to spite someone. Maybe everyone. Well, I'll find out.

We are going to be _glamorous._

**So, yeah, if it wasn't clear, there are like… six tributes in here who ****_aren't _****batshit crazy. Also, not that I'm a review whore or anything (ha. hahaha) but once the Games start, I do use them as sort of a roll call. I'd rather not kill off characters whose creators are still reading, meaning that if I think you've gone poof, your person will probably kick the bucket. It's not to be mean or "punish" anyone for not reviewing, I promise. On that note, I really can't emphasize enough how much your character's survival is ****_not _****connected to how much I like you or even how much I like them. I'm just trying to write the most compelling story I can.**


	6. Reaping: Ariel

**I said this was a game full of pretty boys, but behold, the Final Boss of pretty boy-ness. Note that the rating is now M, and it's thanks to this guy, so be warned that it's about to get colorful. For best results, listen to Primadonna by Marina and the Diamonds while reading this.**

**I'm linking characters' names on my profile to their theme song as they're introduced, because I love having music associated with characters and thought I'd share the joy. :P (No, Primadonna isn't his, it just reminds me of him.) Some of it is… more ominous than your first impression of the character might indicate.**

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I love plutonium cores because they're perfectly safe right up until you fuck up, and then nothing can save you. A misplaced reflector. A faded label. _Bang. Flash. _So much for your intestinal lining.

And you don't have to mess up that badly. You might not even know. The alpha particles can't get through your skin, so you're totally fine unless you accidentally inhale or ingest some of the material. If you do, they soak into you and irradiate your guts for the rest of your life and beyond.

Take polonium, for example. If you dosed a hundred people with one microgram each, fifty of them would die of it. But it looks so _innocent, _just a dullish, purple-tinged metal. Like you could make a drink coaster out of it. And it goes airborne easily.

I like that about radioactivity. It teaches you respect.

I push off against the wall, sending my rolly chair careening across the control room. Technically I'm not supposed to be alone in here, given that I'm not officially licensed. Technically I'm not supposed to be in here at all, given that I'm not eighteen until the winter. But we're in academia; nobody cares about regulations. We care very much about not getting killed horribly, of course, but following every last letter of the law? No. We do what we want.

My shift doesn't end for an hour. I'm bored. I finished my homework within twenty minutes of getting in here, which was three hours ago. I'm not allowed to listen to music or take a nap.

Well, at least I've got my favorite source of entertainment: me.

I pull out my mirror and study my face, making bedroom eyes at myself. Perfect lips. Rich green eyes. Brown hair. Cheekbones like a goddamned angel. How should I do my hair for the Reaping? Sleek and smart? Messy-sexy? Under-the-radar well-behaved?

Ha. No. Never.

I don't usually care _quite_ so much, but today is a big day. I'm getting Reaped. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.

I have this theory that the Reapings aren't random. Even outside the Career Districts, the tributes are always suspiciously strong and smart and attractive. They have weird pasts. They're _interesting. _They make good entertainment.

And I happen to be the single most interesting thing in District Five. And by "most interesting" I mean "hottest". Reactors included.

Speaking of which…

I glance at the readouts. Twelve hundred degrees Celsius, nice and toasty.

As always, I'm fascinated by how easily it could all go straight to hell. There's a word for it, I think. _L'appel du vide, _or something like that. The call of the void. Like standing in a high place and having the crazy urge to jump. With a few buttons and codes, I could yank out the control rods, and I and many others would be so, so very dead.

Nothing's computerized. Can't have hackers from the outlying Districts getting in and doing exactly what I'm contemplating doing anyway. So there's nothing to stop me. As long as I'm alone in this room, I'm the motherfucking _deity _of this building.

And I'm dying anyway. The Games and all. So…

But no, that's no fun. And then I'd go down in history, for the few weeks it would take to forget my name, as the idiot who couldn't even run a reactor right. That won't do.

I walk away from the console to remove the temptation, but now I'm bored again. I've never had the attention span for reading. I don't see the point of drawing because I'm the only work of art I need, damn it. I spend a few minutes dancing around for the cameras—not exactly stripper-dancing, but not exactly _not_ stripper-dancing, either; I'm sure the guys in security will get a kick out of it—but even that can only amuse me for so long.

I flop back into the rolly chair and spin around idly. _Could _I be wrong about getting Reaped? Or maybe it'll be next year, when I'm legal. But then _I'll _look creepy, and I think they'll want to be able to root for me. It'll be fun to see how far I can push that. How awful can I be and still be sponsored by people who want to screw me?

Pretty far, if my life so far is any indication. I talk back to every authority figure I meet just to see how much they'll take. I break rules until the Peacekeepers have to do something about it. And then I find out exactly how much, say, waiving a crime worth weeks in prison or ignoring a risky move at the reactor is worth. The price of all sorts of infractions is often remarkably similar.

See, the other reason I'm the most interesting thing in District Five is that I have fucked or been fucked by half of District Five, plus a few visitors. Why? Because I can. And because I like it.

At long, _long _last my shift is over and the next guy comes in. It's Winston, a friend of my mentor. He looks serious.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

Winston throws me off my game. There are people who want me, and people who hate me because I'm beautiful, and people who hate me because I'm awful, and people who are some combination of those. Then there's Winston. He's never shown the barest inkling of noticing that I'm attractive, _or _that I'm a terrible person who's also a total whore.

Let it never be said that I'm not self-aware.

"Well, the Reaping," he says in a voice like I'm stupid for not knowing but he can't say that out loud because he has to be nice to me today. He cares, I think, which is weird, but he doesn't know how to be anything other than stern. He's just that kind of nerd. I like him, I guess, even though talking to him is the most awkward experience I have on a regular basis, and that's saying a lot for someone who's seen the Mayor naked.

"Oh. Right," I say.

"Good luck."

"I… thanks, Winston."

He frowns. "Fix your hair; you look like you just got out of bed."

I resist the urge to tell him that's the point. "I will."

Winston nods. I duck out before he can tell me to straighten up some other aspect of my appearance, although I really don't look that messy aside from my hair. I'm a dress-shirt-and-dark-jeans kind of guy. Just innocent enough at a glance to keep people guessing.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to stop at home, so it's a good thing I dropped my suit in the locker room before my shift. Five or six guys are already there. I could change in the showers, but I don't feel like it. I could also leave my underclothes on, but I don't feel like doing that, either. Let's test some engineers' professionalism. They can't all be _that _heterosexual.

A-ha. I catch one looking and wink at him. He turns bright red and looks away. I smirk, finish getting dressed, and "accidentally" bump into him on my way out, slipping my number into his back pocket for in case I'm wrong about getting Reaped. He's not even good-looking, but whatever; I don't have to look at his face and I've got no plans for tonight.

The subway to the Square is packed with boys in suits and girls in dresses. I smile at the girl next to me. I don't remember her face, but her chest rings a bell. She wasn't bad, as I recall.

Oh, and what a delightful coincidence: the guy across from me is another old conquest. It's like a high school reunion, except instead of high school it's my–

"Ariel!" he says with a grin. The kind of grin that says in his mind, I'm _his _old conquest. Ha. Good one. I got what I wanted; whatever he got out of it was incidental. I like what I like and I don't appreciate it when people start thinking they've beaten me somehow by doing exactly what I wanted them to do, when and how hard and for how long I told them to do it. Call me a slut, but never, _ever _call me anyone's bitch.

Idiots.

I smile back. "Hey."

"You look nice."

"Thanks," I say. _I'm going to throw you into a reactor, _I think.

"You around tonight?"

I check my phone. Plenty of messages, but nothing from the locker room guy. I don't take it personally; the shy, awkward types flake out on me a lot. I'd be intimidated by me, too. "Looks like I am."

"Meet me after the Reaping?"

"Sure."

I'll be very insulted if I don't get Reaped. So if I _am _around tonight, I'll be angry. I have a feeling that I can take it out on this clown if I play my cards right. Consent is key, of course, but it's surprisingly easy to turn things around on the smirking, swaggering, macho type. They can't pass up a challenge. _You're not scared of me, are you? Come on, you can deal it out but you can't take it? No? Then prove it. _

A bit of an evil smirk must show on my face, because the guy gives me a weird look. I drop my gaze and lick my lips and he's happy again. Mm-hmm. Nothing to worry about from me, my friend.

The station is a clusterfuck getting out and I'm among the last people to the Square. The Mayor has already started talking by the time I reach the Seventeens. Well, fine, I didn't want to hear it anyway. I sense that I'm a little disheveled and worse for the wear after my fight with the crowd, but a quick check in my mirror assures me that it's in a good way.

Our escort slouches onto the stage, almost tripping on jet black hair that's longer than she is tall. For the first time, I'm nervous. Not about the Games themselves. What if I'm Reaped and I get a terrible stylist? I'm not sure I can handle that.

"Girls first," the escort hisses, baring her teeth at the crowd. Her canines are elongated and filed to points. I get the feeling it's Halloween all year 'round for this chick. Stupid, but those teeth would be a hell of a rush against my neck.

She closes her eyes and plunges her hand into the Reaping Ball like she's about to pull out Excalibur. The crowd goes dead silent.

"Luther Constantine."

Who in the fuck is that? I thought I knew everyone near my age, at least in the Biblical sense.

I can't see her until she appears onstage from the Eighteens. Calm enough. Smiling graciously, in an I-hope-you-all-fall-in-a-hole sort of way. Almost as tall as me and at least as slim, borderline bony in her case. Brown hair like mine, not much longer. Sharp, handsome features. Aside from the hazel eyes, she could be mistaken for me from a distance. What the fuck?

It occurs to me that if I'm Reaped, District Five will be represented by a girl who looks a boy and a boy who looks like a girl. I had _better _get Reaped. That's awesome.

"Now… the boys," the escort whispers gravely. What is she, thirteen? It's like she's about to announce a death or something.

Oh. Hah. Right.

"Ariel Sevasti!"

Someone pick up the phone, because _I called it._

I keep my face blank and solemn and make my way to the stage. This time the crowd gets out of my way. I revel in the feeling, lifting my chin. _Yes, perfect. Retreat before me. As you always should have, you morons._

Luther looks me up and down unabashedly, raising a slight _not bad _eyebrow. I give her an _I know, darling _smile.

We shake hands. Hard. Looking each other in the eye, and she doesn't look away, and I'm sure as hell not going to, so we stand there in a silent battle of wills. She's even more interesting up close. Her short hair is messy. Actually messy, not carefully messed-up like mine. There are dark circles under her eyes. She's pale and almost starved-looking, but not in a weak way. More like she might rip me to shreds like a wild animal any second. And she's one of those people who radiate a calculating intelligence, like she knows something I don't and she's already planned how to take me down with it.

Why do I get the feeling, just from the name and the look of her and the way she's looking at me, that she might just give me a run for my money? Now _that _is an interesting thought. A girl who could actually put me on my knees. It's never happened before, not even close, but damn.

Unless, of course, I get her first.

**So… yep. I warned you. Thoughts? (Seriously, is this fine or too far? Because it can get sooo much worse if you guys don't tell me to knock it off.)**

**Ahahahah. I just had a funny thought. Ariel vs. Lesbians. His poor ego.**


	7. Reaping: Atlas

**For those of you keeping score at home, here comes prettyboy number three. To be exact, this one's bi, not pan. Technical foul?**

**Disclaimer: I'm impatient. I want to get to the Games. As such, this is, er, not actually proofread. Don't eat me if there are typos. :P**

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

I have some sympathy for genuinely terrible people. The ones who can't help it, because they couldn't be good if they tried; they just don't know how. To me, the worst people are the ones who know exactly how to be better, but keep doing the wrong thing anyway.

I'm not usually the type to sit around philosophizing, but I've got nothing better to do because the sun's not up yet, I can't go back to sleep, and my mother just ran away from me in tears.

It's not that she's scared of me or anything. I'm not _that _immoral. But as long as she keeps talking about what a heartache I am to her and how much she wishes I would only date girls, I can't help replying in kind. _And _something she did made my father leave. He was scum too, of course, but still.

At least our house is big enough to get some distance between us.

I pull my shoes on, grab a piece of bread, and leave, too restless to sit in my room anymore. The Square doesn't even open for two hours and there's nothing to do there but stand and wait anyway. How would my friends react if I woke them up? They'd take it in stride, I think—Thorburn might put me in a headlock, but he'd get over it—but the more I think about it, the less appealing it is. I love my friends, but I think I want to walk around alone right now.

The Peacekeepers give me suspicious glares as I slouch past them. Wiltshire gives me a particularly dirty look, and I give him one right back. I'm no criminal, but I'm no Capitol suck-up either. Plus I banged his little sister. Well, she asked; what's he mad at _me _for? So what if I climbed out her window the next morning? It's a cruel world out there, what was she expecting?

… Okay, yeah, it was a dick move. Whatever.

Even in the summer, it's a little chilly this early in the morning. The tall buildings and ever-present smog block out any chance of early sunlight reaching the ground. Even the sky is more gray than anything else. I want to do something, but there's nothing I want to do. I'm tired and cold and hungry and thirsty but not enough to do anything about any of it. I'm uncomfortable to the core. Something's not how it should be and it's making me even more unhappy than usual, but I have no idea what.

Maybe I'll find my friends after all. Talking to someone other than Mom might snap me out of whatever this is.

Gaius's building is closer. I jog the few blocks to the rickety tenement, checking my watch as I reach it. Still way too early to knock. Gaius might be okay with it, but his family is generally a bit less willing to put up with my bullshit. I scale the fire escape instead, counting floors as I go, careful to keep the metal from squealing under my shoes because I'm fucking considerate like that.

I freeze when a Peacekeeper walks past. Climbing fire escapes is one of those things that's probably not technically illegal, but just _feels _against the rules, to the point that the Peacekeepers may well jump on the chance to do something nasty to me. I've got a little more wiggle room than the average person—perks of being a manager's son, even if she _did _inherit the position rather than earning it—but they also all hate me. Better not to tempt fate.

I squint through the grimy window of the room Gaius shares with a few of his brothers, wondering how good my odds are of waking him up without bothering them.

Very good, as it turns out, because he's already awake, leaning against the wall with his knees tucked up to his chest, staring into space. I tap on the window. He jumps, whips around to face me, and relaxes. I settle back on my heels as he picks his way across the room, scribbling a note and dropping it on his eldest brother's chest before opening the window and joining me on the fire escape.

"Morning," I say.

"Morning."

"Nervous?"

"Duh."

"Don't be."

He raises an eyebrow. "Wow, that's brilliant. Never would've thought of that. Thanks, man."

"Here to help, bro."

Gaius is fifteen. He could be my cheeky little brother, and he acts the part perfectly, except he's actually brilliant. I'm pretty sharp when I want to be, but he's a scribbling-equations-on-the-wall caliber genius. I think half the dyes in the factory are his invention. If the world were fair, he'd be filthy rich. Instead he's just filthy. He mentioned a few days ago that their water stopped working and I guess it hasn't started again.

He's one of those stubborn die-before-taking-charity types, but I know him well enough to get around that when I want to. It's all in how you phrase it.

"Hey, want to come get ready at my house?" I say. "My mom's already up. I know how long it takes you to do your hair."

Gaius's hair is half an inch long, tops.

He yawns. "Yeah, sure. Can't go to the Reaping with ratty hair. Tabloids would be all over it."

He retrieves his thirdhand clothes from inside and we climb back down the fire escape. By the time we're back at my house, it's starting to be a semi-human hour to be awake, and various officials and ground crew are already zinging around. There's a colorful bustle at the far end of the street that might be the Capitol entourage arriving.

Poncey fucking douchebags. How do they stand themselves? Forget how evil they are, I just don't get how you wake up in the morning with cotton candy pink hair and no regret.

Mom is on the sofa when we come through the living room. She catches my eye, sniffles, and looks away. Whatever. I hustle Gaius upstairs before anything awkward can happen in front of him, sending him off to shower and occupying myself looking for my other shoe. I can't be that guy wearing sneakers with a suit. It's true that, from the deepest depths of my heart, I don't care, but sneakers with a suit looks like I'm trying to _look _like I don't care. I'm above that.

Only, wait, how many minutes have I spent now crawling around in my closet just so people will know how much I don't care about looking like I don't care?

I sit there for a second with my head tilted and my eyes narrowed, wondering how to wriggle out of the logic bomb I just dropped on myself. Man, life is complicated.

Oh, look, there's my other shoe. Problem solved.

It turns out to be a good thing Gaius and I started getting ready early. I don't begrudge him a long shower, but by the time we're done getting dressed and tripping over each other trying to track down ties and shoelaces, we're cutting it close. The walk downtown feels a lot longer in dress shoes. It's not a distance I'd usually do on foot, but the nearest parking places are even farther out than my house, so the old-fashioned way it is.

Gaius gets paler and paler as we go.

"Seriously, don't be nervous," I say.

He looks pained. "Look, Atlas, I've got a ton of tesserae."

I blink, my own lack of them suddenly glaring. "So what if you get Reaped? I'll go."

He stops dead. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I… like hell," he protests. "C'mon, what the fuck am I s'posed to say to that?"

"You could say 'okay, cool'."

"That is neither okay nor cool."

I shouldn't have told him. I mean it, but now it looks like I'm blustering around, trying to be a hero and earn his gratitude without actually doing anything. But he knows I'm not like that. Not for him, anyway.

"Forget it," I say. "You won't get Reaped, anyway."

"Yeah, I know."

xxx

He gets Reaped.

And I do hesitate. Enough that he must decide I was full of it after all, because he squares his shoulders and starts the long walk to the stage. No help from his brothers, they're mostly bastards and too old anyway. Thurston's aged out, too.

Every shred of logic says I should volunteer. He's more valuable than me. He's a better person than me. Haven't I always had a morbid fascination with the Games? Practiced whipping my belt at a chair and wondered what it would be like to be in them?

Yes. Yes, I have. He's a perfectly innocent, valuable little genius and I'm nothing special and a bad person to boot. This is the only good thing that matters. I don't have to think about it or fully comprehend what I'm doing. I just have to say the words.

"I volunteer!" I yell.

There's the usual excited bluster from the stage about a volunteer from an outer District. Gaius stops dead halfway up the steps, his expression dumbstruck.

_Told you, didn't I? _I grumble at him mentally.

I pass him on my way up. He gives me a scared, shocked look. "Atlas, what the fuck?"

"I'll be fine."

"You sure as hell won't!" he hisses.

"Not the point. This is how I want things to be."

The Peacekeepers are getting twitchy. I find Thurston, who's shoved his way to the front of the crowd, and propel Gaius in his direction. He'll be fine.

Our escort looks like a flamingo. I make a point of looking somewhere else and find myself meeting eyes with our lone mentor, a woman in her seventies. She's remarkably well put-together, at least for an outer District mentor. Her lucidity is an achievement in itself. She nods at me respectfully, and I nod back, ignoring the sickish feeling that I don't deserve it. That wasn't bravery. That was fear of watching Gaius die, and apathy for my own life.

The next to size me up is our female tribute. Her name is Desdemona Crow. She's thirteen, short and stocky, dark-skinned. Her light brown eyes are dry. She doesn't strike me as dangerous, exactly, but there's something solid about her. She incites an strange kind of respect. What are the odds that she'll find me equally tolerable?

"That was brave," she mutters.

Fuck it. I'll just go with it.

I sigh. "Thanks."

**One more Reaping, I think? Sorry these are getting steadily shorter; I did warn you about my attention span.**


	8. Reaping: Carmen

**Whoever sent me a D2 guy, a. I can't for the life of me find the PM to remember who you are because I've gotten like 3953298572357 in the last few days, sorry! And b. thank you so much, you are wonderful! But I was just waiting for an in-progress one to be finished. I'll probably repurpose him as a mentor if you don't mind?**

**Carmen Alvarez, District Eleven, 16**

It's the absence of noise that wakes me up. There should be kids running around, shops opening, the market setting up. Just a general bustle as District Eleven boots up. But there's nothing, only a tense silence as dreary as the gray sky. Without the fresh bread and spices from the market to brighten things up, the only scent in the air is mud.

Mmm. Smells like Reaping Day.

Lucky for me the inn is equally silent. It's a miracle I got a room so close to the District capital with nothing but puppy dog eyes and the promise that my parents would be along in the morning to pay. Ha. Hahaha. Good one, me. I collect my things and toss myself unceremoniously out the second-story window.

_Splat._

My boots sink into mud up to the ankle, splattering dirty water up my skirt. A cat hisses at me and scuttles away.

Today is not going to be a good day.

"What– Hey!" the innkeeper's voice yells from an upstairs window. That would be my cue to leave. I take off across the small yard at a dead sprint. By the time he can draw breath to yell again, I've vanished into his cornfield.

I cut through it at a tangent that will take me to the road maybe a mile down. He won't bother chasing me. The inn has to be full beyond capacity; one runaway customer isn't worth leaving the whole building unattended.

I stick my head out of the corn and find myself a few feet behind a Peacekeeper. He whips around before I can pull back.

"Hello," he says blankly.

I step out of the corn and adjust the scarf tied around my head, looping under my ponytail, and give him a polite nod. "Morning."

"Any reason you were, uh…?"

"Meditation," I say earnestly. "So much growth and greenery. Very good for the chi. If you want, I would be happy to tell you all about–"

"No! I mean, no, no, don't let me keep you. You ought to be getting along to the Reaping," he says.

I sigh. "I suppose you're right, sir. But remember to take care of your chi. Look into it."

"Er… yes, certainly."

I sweep him a curtsy, hop the ditch, and start up the road. My stomach growls. Damn the Reaping for closing the outdoor markets.

Amélie will give me food, whether I like it or not. I can tell it makes her day when I accept some. Maybe I will today. It'll lighten her mood, and, let's be honest, being hungry is no fun. Less so when I have to stand around for hours waiting to find out who's going to die.

Bit by bit, fields and the occasional rickety wooden stall are replaced by the closest thing District Eleven has to a city. I pass the Mayor's huge, grand house—Amélie's house—without a second look. We don't meet there. Amélie's mother has an unfortunate habit of swooping in on and doing away with anything that makes her happy. I flatter myself that I make her happy, and I would rather not be done away with, hence me keeping my distance.

Amélie won't be there, anyway. She'll be at our spot, an unused third-floor apartment above the butcher's shop. It smells like blood, but it works.

She's already there when I tumble in through the window, settled on a chair that's draped ghostlike with a white sheet, feet tucked under her. She's the picture of frail beauty, all skinny limbs and thin, strawberry blonde hair, dressed up like a doll in a stiff, pale pink dress.

Amélie glances up at the _thud _of my boots on the ground, deliberately obvious to avoid sneaking up on her and startling her. The worried crease between her eyebrows vanishes and her face lights up. There's something warm and golden and magical in knowing it's because of me. As long as she believes in me, I can take on the world.

We're not as careful as we should be. I think the only reason Amélie's mother doesn't know about us is because everyone loves Amélie and no one wants to get her in trouble. Usually I can hide what I'm thinking, but my friends tease me up, down, and sideways about the look I get when she comes up in conversation. Once a mutual friend told me how Amélie goes on and on about how great I am and I blushed enough for it to show on my dark olive skin.

Basically, everyone who knows either of us knows it's only a matter of time until we elope into the wilderness or something. But they keep it to themselves. Sometimes people don't suck.

My stomach growls. Amélie tosses me a piece of bread wordlessly. I catch it and tear off a piece, trying not to feel like a fish gasping up at the little kid on the dock throwing down crumbs. I have no idea why accepting a gift feels so much worse than stealing, but it does. At least theft requires guts and skill.

"How'd you sleep?" I mumble around the mouthful, perching on the arm of her chair.

"Mm," she says with a noncommittal shrug. The dark circles under her eyes answer my question well enough. Amélie is beyond terrified of the Games, and honestly, I don't blame her. She's wonderful and perfect and she wouldn't last ten seconds.

"You'll sleep better tonight."

"If things go well. I hope so."

"They never Reap Mayors' kids, unless they're mad at the Mayor," I reassure her. "And your parents haven't done anything."

"Yeah," she says uneasily. "You didn't take any tesserae, did you?"

"Nope."

She relaxes a bit, leaning her head against my upper arm. "Good."

I wrap the arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her in closer so she's leaning against my side. She's so _skinny. _She should be the most well-fed person in the District, but when she leans forward a little I can see her shoulder blades through her dress. Sometimes I suspect she starves herself as a sort of penance for being the Mayor's daughter, refusing to eat more than the poorest person in the District.

Which is silly, because technically I've got nothing but the clothes on my back, my knife, and whatever odds and ends I'm carrying at the moment, and I eat just fine most of the time. I'm still small-framed and flat-chested to boot, but Amélie makes me look downright voluptuous.

"Did you have breakfast?" I ask.

She bites her lip. I scowl.

"You didn't," I accuse, shoving the rest of the bread into her hand. "C'mon, I don't want you passing out. Too hot to stand there for hours on an empty stomach."

Amélie nibbles on the bread halfheartedly. I do my best to keep the blatant pity off my face. For all the happy, optimistic act she puts on, she's the most miserable person I know deep down. I don't blame her. At least I'm free. I get hurt sometimes, but I've got a say in it. She's trapped in that pink dress and everything that goes along with it, her will and independence atrophying as they're restricted year after year.

"Wanna come to the Firepit after the Reaping?" I say. The Firepit is the unofficial headquarters for kids like me, who left home and never went back, or never had one in the first place. It's dirty and uncomfortable, but it's somewhere to go when you need somewhere safe to sleep. I spend one or two night there a week keeping watch, but I can usually get a room at an inn.

Amélie loves it. She tries to conceal it, but I can tell she's got that rich-girl fascination with life on the other side of the poverty line. I don't blame her; she can't help it. Plus it means she gets to dress in loose, ratty clothes and fall in the mud and not worry about it. I bring her along when I can. It's not like there's much else I can give her as a gift, as much as I'd like to shower her in flowers and chocolates and diamonds.

Amélie nods. "If Mom doesn't tell me to be somewhere. We should go to the Square, though."

I glance out the window to check where the sun is. She's right.

We bail out—she's surprisingly coordinated for a frail girl in a tight dress and heels—and stroll out of the alley with nothing-to-see-here looks on our faces. Just two teenage girls hanging out behind the butcher's shop, as teenage girls tend to do. Move along, folks.

Amélie's eight months older than me, but luckily our birthdays fall to put us in the same year on Reaping Day. We stand next to each other at the back of the Sixteens pen, clutching each other's hands and keeping an eye on her parents, who are running around setting things up onstage. Whenever they look up, we sidestep away from each other, snapping back together as soon as they return their attention to the speakers or whatever.

It gets hot. Then it gets hotter. The Mayor drones on and on. The escort bounces and prattles. Amélie gets paler and paler, her hand settling in mind with more and more weight. She sways a little and I sling her arm around my shoulders.

This is why I don't actually ask her to run off into the woods with me. Maybe it's just because she doesn't eat enough, but maybe not, and I don't want to take her away from Panem on the off chance that there's actually something medically wrong with her. I _think _she would tell me, but she's one of those infuriating people who will drop dead before asking for help because they don't want to inconvenience anyone.

"Carmen Alvarez!"

"Huh?" I mutter, glancing up at the sound of my name.

Amélie gasps. Her eyes widen, then flutter shut, and I barely catch her before her head smacks the ground. It sinks in a second later. I just got Reaped. I wasn't paying attention; Amélie was.

A Peacekeeper catches my eye and jerks his head at the stage. I hold up a _one second _finger and lower Amélie the rest of the way to the ground carefully. There's barely space. She'll get stepped on if any of the nearby girls move; they can't possibly want me to just _leave _her there?

Someone grabs my elbow. I barely stop myself from whipping out my knife and sinking the blade into the man's arm.

"Hang _on," _I growl at him.

"You were Reaped."

"Yup, got the message, thanks. Just give me a second, I have to make sure–"

He wraps an arm around my waist and drags me backwards.

"_Hey!" _I yell at him. "First of all, ex-_cuse _you–"

I crane my neck, struggling to get a look at what's going on in the crush of girls. To my relief, I see Amélie's face, blinking dazedly. Two other girls have hoisted her upright and catch my eye, giving me a _we've got her _nod. Bless them.

The Peacekeeper yanks on me again.

"Knock it off," I grumble, slipping out of his grip and dodging away before he can grab me again. "I'm going, I'm going."

I try not to watch as Amélie slowly gets her wits back. First I see her trying to talk to the girls holding her, but I can tell by their faces that she's not making sense. Then she seems to remember what happened and her eyes get wide again. She gets more urgent, squirming in their grip, and now they're restraining her. Finally she makes eye contact with me. _Calm down, _I try to convey through gestures. _Just wait. Please don't start screaming. Please? For me?_

She bites her lip and her shoulders slump. Phew.

Somewhere in the middle of our little soap opera, a boy gets Reaped. Elfor Evain. Fourteen. Cutish, freckled kid, but that's all I notice.

Fuck this. Fuck this by an angry stallion. I knew today would be a bad day, but this is way too far.

**And that's it for Reapings. Praise the lord.**


	9. Justice Building: Reyna

**Justice Building chapters will probably be pretty short, because there's no worldbuilding or tribute interaction to do. I love your characters just as much, I promise. :P**

**Reyna Alcott, District 6, 18**

There's been some kind of mistake.

I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach that says I'm deluding myself. Something's gone wrong. People get Reaped for doing something _wrong, _and I'm the Head Peacekeeper's daughter. I follow the rules. I enforce the rules. How did I get Reaped?

Is it possible that I _did _do something wrong? I don't see how. I've memorized every law of Panem and District Six and I follow them to the letter. I'm no hypocrite. And I'm surrounded by Peacekeepers; even if I somehow slipped up, someone would've told me.

Which leaves the possibility that I'm completely innocent, and this is happening to me anyway.

I look around the room to distract myself from that train of thought. There's no law against thinking what I was about to think, but there should be.

Most of my friends are Peacekeepers. They'll be too busy… well… keeping the peace to come see me. As they should be. Akiyoshi will get here eventually, though, and so will my dad. So I just have to keep it together until they arrive, and then they'll sort this out. Figure out what happened and set it straight. Obviously whoever's in charge of the Reapings made some kind of mix-up.

Will they fix it, though?

That's not a good thought, either, but it's too late. Can they go back on a Reaping? I don't see how. So even if I wasn't meant to die…

I grit my teeth and breathe out hard through my nose, shifting on the sofa at the back of the room. One of the Peacekeepers gives me a sympathetic nod. I can't tell who it is through the mirrored visor, but I give an unhappy, _I-know-right _look back.

The door opens and Akiyoshi comes in, still in his Peacekeeper uniform, helmet tucked under his arm, jet black hair standing up crazily. I sit up straight and wipe any trace of distress from my face.

"Reyna," he says in a tone I've never heard before and don't know what to do with.

"Yeah. Hi. What's going on?"

"Well, I… Y-You were Reaped."

"Yeah, but… they're not… you know, fixing it?"

He shakes his head slowly. "It's done. There's nothing anyone can do about it." He thinks about that. "Well, I mean, there is, but…"

I stare at him. "Well, can they get on with it? There are three people I'm supposed to interrogate today."

"No, I… I was kidding. Not really. I just meant, you know, the Capitol could cancel the Games, but… no."

My stare turns into something like a glare. "Yeah, no."

"I know. So… you'll win, right?"

"How should I know?"

"You'll try?"

"Yeah."

"No matter what it takes, though. There are no rules in there."

"There are always rules."

Akiyoshi laughs. "Well, you make them in there, okay? But promise me rule one will be 'don't die'?"

"Okay. I promise."

"Thanks. Here, will you take this?"

I frown and lean forward to see what he's got in his hand. A ring. "What the hell?"

"Promise ring. You know. To remind you. If you'd take it as you token, it would really… I'd appreciate it."

Can't hurt. "Sure, okay," I shrug, taking the ring from his palm and putting it on. He blinks and a weird expression crosses his face. Okay?

Another Peacekeeper sticks her head in. "Mikami, her dad's here. Scram."

Akiyoshi opens his mouth, closes it again, gives me one last gooey-eyed look, and scuttles out.

Ooooo-kay?

Dad walks in and my stomach starts doing backflips. I didn't know I was this upset until suddenly I'm freaking out at him.

"Did I do something?" I ask.

"What? No, no, you didn't–"

"So then why am I Reaped?" I accuse. My voice is already climbing toward screechy levels, but I don't bother reeling it back down. "You only get Reaped if you deserve it, you know that, the Capitol doesn't just kill random kids–"

"Reyna, I have no idea what happened, but you didn't do anything wrong." He sounds just as shell-shocked as I am. "I don't… If there was anything I could do, but…"

"What the hell," I whisper, staring into space.

He sits down next to me and hugs me. "I know."

"I don't want to go into the Games," I say with a sniffle. The tough-girl thing is gone for now. "People don't follow the law in there!"

"I know, Reyna, I'm so, so sorry–"

"What's going _on_?" I wail.

It's absurdly childish and I know it, but I think I'm entitled to a moment of childishness. This is insane. I'm too busy for this. I'm useful. I'm more than useful, I'm _critical; _no one gets information like I do. They're all too nice to do what it takes. Yeah, Dad says I go too far sometimes, but that's because he's too compassionate for his own good, the type of person to run around District Six in the snow leaving food on people's porches.

Not that I have a problem with that per se. But when it comes to getting dead serious, making someone understand that they will do what's right whether they like it or not or they will suffer, he's useless. They all are.

"I'm sorry," Dad says helplessly, hugging me tighter.

I stare at the wall dumbly, tense and shivering in his arms even though it's already hot out and I'm wearing my usual leather jacket. I _still _can't wrap my mind around what's happening. This isn't _right. _This isn't _fair. _People should be punished for doing something wrong but I haven't done anything wrong so why why why am I being shipped off to die on live TV?

Or maybe… maybe the Capitol knows exactly who I am, and they _meant _to Reap me? What if they want a good example of a citizen in the Games for once? Maybe I'll be used to show the virtues of good behavior. I'm supposed to punish the other tributes, who did something wrong and were Reaped for it. The Capitol will thank me for a job well done and send me home to keep enforcing justice.

Yes, that sounds right.

**Hmm, I don't feel like this chapter came together quite right; the character in my head and on the page are way different. Hopefully I'll get it later on. One more Justice Building, then train rides. We're... a quarter of the way there! Yay?**


	10. Train Ride: Viss

**Viss Bardier, 17, District 3**

It's the weirdest triumph that comes knowing I really, truly, from the bottom of my heart, do not care.

I'm not scared. I'm not sad. Barely anything has changed. Things are gonna come at me and I'll do as much about it as I feel like doing and that's all there is to it. I've got no one to disappoint, no dreams to lose, no reputation to worry about. I'm as much a spectator as the Capitolites.

Could be fun to watch, actually. I'm starting to see the appeal of the Games.

My compartment in the train is big and clean. I can't get used to the monotony of the train's wheels and the silence behind it. Not even the echo of a scream. My hair is wet from my first shower in days, taken half to get the glowing naked escort away from me and half because I've got fuck-all else to do.

I never have anything to do. I work. I eat. I breathe. I fight when I have to. I don't have anything to read or whatever. I have vague memories of an older girl trying to find a hobby for me, handing me paper and pencils and a cheap plastic recorder and everything in between. I stared at them and resented her vaguely for trying to make me like something. Was I supposed to be grateful? Did I owe her? She was a perfectly okay person, I guess, but I didn't fucking _ask_. Leave me alone.

I don't get that about some people from the Districts. We're drones. Accept it or lead a revolution; don't delude yourself into thinking you matter. Hell, not giving a fuck about your own life is a superpower. I can observe and judge and condemn and never be challenged and no one can do anything to me because _I don't care._

So I lie on top of my covers in nothing but a pair of shorts, staring at the ceiling and waiting for a reason to get up.

Someone knocks on the door. That didn't take long.

It's Luka. His eyes go right to my chest, but snap up to my face just as quickly. He opens his mouth and closes it again like he's wondering if he should apologize or hope I didn't notice.

I stare at him until he ducks his head. This should be fun.

The silence stretches on until he accepts that I'm not gonna break it. "Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"I… um, sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Don't worry about it. I know they're nice," I say in a monotone.

He's cute, in a lost-puppy sort of way. Pointy-featured, his hair wild and streaked with green and blue, but with innocent brown eyes. He holds himself like a weakling—shoulders hunched, arms crossed, taking up as little space as he can—even though I can tell at a glance that even though he's small, he's wiry, and strong enough to do serious damage.

He chews his lip nervously. "So, I, um… Sorry to bother you, but I just… um…"

"Spit it out."

"Can I stay here?"

I stare at him some more.

"I-If it won't bother you. You don't have to talk to me, just, if I could sleep on the floor in here or whatever… I know it's fuckin' stupid, I do, okay? But I don't wanna be alone right now."

"I'm not good company."

"You mean that, or you'd rather I go back to my room?"

"I mean it," I say. "You do what you want. I don't care."

He skulks in. "So, um… _do _you mind talking?"

"Dunno what I've got to say. Don't mind you talking." I sit on the one chair, leaving him to stand around awkwardly until I gesture for him to sit on the bed. He glances at my chest again and his cheeks turn pink. This is too easy.

"I dunno what to say either. Which is funny, 'cause usually I never shut up, see," Luka muses. "It's kinda a problem. And then I start to wonder if people think I like the sound of my own voice more than silence, 'cause I'll just go on forever—I mean, case in point, right?—and it sounds bad but it's kinda true, I guess. But I'd rather not talk about nothing forever, but I dunno what to ask you that's not too personal."

"Nothing's personal. Capitol's gonna broadcast everything about us."

"Oh," he says. "Well… you miss anyone?"

"Eh."

"You really this quiet or just fuckin' with me?"

"Yes."

He laughs. "Yeah, you're fuckin' with me, aren't you?"

"Maybe. My turn. You wanna win?"

He stops laughing. "I wanna live. But…"

"You don't wanna do what it takes."

"Not even about whether I wanna. I can't, you know? So it's… I know I shouldn't go in hopeless, but there's just no fuckin' way, right?"

"Get lucky?"

"Not gonna happen, though."

The thought crosses my mind that I don't want him to give up. All at once, I think I want him to live, because he deserves it, and none of this is fair, and I'm picturing him splayed out on his back with his throat slit and those sweet brown eyes glassy and his dad breaking down hundred of miles away and I'm _angry–_

I remember I don't care. Luka doesn't matter.

"You okay?"

I blink. "What?"

"You just, uh… had an expression on your face, there," he says hesitantly. "Other than, you know, hate."

"What?" I say again, for lack of anything better.

"Never mind. I don't wanna mess it up if this is what you've got going on."

"If what's what I've got going on?"

"I dunno, total apathy? Everybody's gotta deal. Guess I should be taking notes, huh?"

I frown. "That's not how I deal. Or if it is, I'm nothing _but _dealing."

"That doesn't sound healthy."

"Well, if I'm alive in a few weeks, I'll have the money to hire a therapist and I give you my solemn word that I will do so. Happy?"

Luka smiles. "Yeah, actually."

What, so he cares about _me _now? And not even whether I live or die, he's worried about my _feelings_. How does someone get so goddamn squishy?

"Because I bet you could win, you know," he says earnestly.

I frown. "How come?"

"I dunno. You seem like knives would bounce off you."

"I'm not knife-proof, believe me."

He tilts his head. "You know that for sure? I mean– You don't have to answer that, sorry, I–"

"Told you nothing's personal," I shrug. "It's City Eleven, you know? Everyone gets stabbed a little."

"A little," he repeats, and apparently decides to let it go when I shrug. "So you ever been away from Eleven before?"

I lose track of time as we keep talking. He does most of the talking, but I still speak more than I probably have over the entirety of the last year. He's an encouraging audience, curious and sympathetic about everything, and it's surreal to have someone's undivided attention. Respect, even. He looks at me like he thinks I know what I'm doing. When I smile despite myself at one of his stories, it seems to give him a massive confidence boost.

It occurs to me that I wish I knew him when he wasn't surrounded by strangers and about to die. Now and then I think he forgets for a moment, and I see a glimpse of what he must usually be like: bright, hyperactive, and unexpectedly sassy. And there's an odd, sharp grace to his movements that tells me he could be a menace in a fight if someone showed him how.

I learn all about Luka's father and his cat, his favorite books, how much he loves math even though he can't keep the trig functions straight. That earnest, hopeful look never leaves his face. I've never seen anything like it. This is the first time I've been with Luka one-on-one, but it's obvious his soul is for sale, he just doesn't know it.

I saw him get Reaped. He's not spoiled, exactly, but he's used to being treasured and protected; he needs people like people need air. He has no idea how vulnerable he is. And even though it's none of my concern, I find myself wanting to help him.

"Luka?" I say, cutting him off in the middle of a story about how he had to climb a water tower to get away from a rabid dog. It's actually entertaining, and the enthusiasm with which he delivers it is endearing, but this is important.

He freezes in the middle of his impression of the lunging dog, then lowers his clawed hands self-consciously. "Yeah?"

"You know you can't spill your guts to everyone you meet, right? You've said enough to give me a big advantage if I wanted to kill you."

"Oh."

"Just sayin'."

He chews his lip for a moment. "So, uh… _do _you want to kill me?"

"Nah."

"Why not?"

"Apathy, remember? I've got no stake in this." It's true, but it's leaving out that growing, sinking feeling that maybe I don't want to kill him, personally.

He blinks. "Yeah, you do. Apathy or not. You can't just stand there and let someone murder you. I mean, I guess you have that right, but, y'know, please don't."

"Why do you care?" I ask slowly.

Luka looks at me like I'm crazy. "I dunno, why wouldn't I?"

He says it in such a _duh _voice that I realize he can't explain it any more specifically; giving a fuck is his default setting. It's weirdly encouraging, or it would be if I cared whether the world and everyone in it go to hell or not. I guess I've never been this close to someone normal.

I know in the abstract that most people do have hopes and dreams and loved ones and all that, because most people aren't from City Eleven. But I sense that even among non-psychopaths, Luka's softness is something special. Something worth fighting for. Maybe even caring about.

Goddammit.

**Thoughts? Feelings? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Limericks? Interpretive dances?**


	11. Train Ride: Woohyun

**Woohyun Averi, District Four, 17**

I'm immensely disappointed to find that Amaris is not, in fact, a _total _moron. I'd been looking forward to making fun of her. I still will, of course, but it means I'm missing out on the exquisite sense of superiority that comes from insulting someone who doesn't realize they're being insulted.

Ah well. Nothing wrong with a good fight, either.

Our mentor, Raysa, sticks her head into the compartment. "Reapings," she snaps. "Watch them."

Amaris makes a disgusted noise. "I know what I'm doing, I'll get to it when I get to it," she snaps right back.

"You can say that after you win. Shut up and watch them." Raysa clicks the screen on before Amaris can object. "And take notes."

Amaris rolls her eyes and pulls out a nail file, stretching out and somehow managing to take up the entire sofa even though I'm also sitting on it. It's a real talent of hers, I've noticed.

"Uh," I interject. "'Scuse me."

"What?"

"Your foot is in my face."

"Good."

I roll my eyes right back and tickle her foot. She kicks me in the face. She doesn't have the leverage to do any real damage, but still, I resent that. My face happens to be very nice, thank you.

So I smack her leg. She kicks me harder, catching my shoulder this time. I grab her ankle and twist.

Something pulls my hair very very hard. Judging by the screeching, Amaris is getting the same treatment.

"Goddamn two-year-olds," Raysa snarls as she lets us go. "Watch. The fucking. Reapings. Before I throw you both headfirst off this train."

I'm just turning to shoot a smug look at Amaris when Raysa smacks the back of my head. "You especially," she growls. "You're not even a Career. Learn some manners before someone kills you."

"I volunteered; you think I'm not expecting to get killed?"

"_I'm _not going to get killed," Amaris sniffs.

I smack her foot away from my face again. "Yeah, good for you, princess. Get your foot away from me or you won't even make it to the Arena."

Raysa digs her nails into the back of the sofa. I think she's doing it to get her temper under control, right up until she grunts and flips the whole thing over, sending Amaris and me sprawling across the floor. She turns and walks out without a word.

"Well," I say lightly, staggering to my feet. "Not gonna lie, I for one am impressed."

"Bitch," Amaris mutters.

"Her or me?"

"Both. Ugh."

"Takes one to know one."

Amaris stares at me. "Wow, that would've been such a burn in third grade. Did you miss snack time or something? Want some carrot sticks so you won't be so grumpy?"

"_I'm _immature?" I laugh. "I'm not the one who volunteered for the sole purpose of ruining someone else's day."

That was Raysa's first question: precisely who the hell are we, and why aren't we Lowen and Riley, the expected tributes? Neither of us wanted to answer, but Raysa has a way of getting the truth out of people. That way, to be specific, is by stabbing skinning knives into the tabletop and locking the doors.

"Oh, yeah, that's _so _childish compared to you, Captain Teen-Angst-Mommy-Issues."

"Hey," I protest. "That's rude to bring up."

"Newsflash," she hisses, getting right in my face. "I _am _rude. Want another newsflash? You're ugly. See, I told you I was rude."

I laugh again. "I'm not ugly, don't lie. I'm handsome as fuck."

"You look like an Asian Ken doll."

"Bullshit, Ken _is _ugly. No bone structure. My cheekbones are the _best."_

Amaris glances at the screen, which has already reached the District Five Reapings. "That dude right there has better cheekbones than you. Case closed. Sucks to suck."

I glance up despite myself as the boy—Ariel, the screen says; who the hell names their son Ariel?—takes the stage. "Bullshit," I say again. "He's pretty, but my cheekbones are better."

"Liar. He is _so _much prettier than you."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not!"

"Is too-oo," Amaris sings, dancing around in a circle.

"Is _not!"_

"Here, let me consult the magic mirror," she says, walking up to an absurdly ornate mirror next to the screen. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all, Angelface up there or this idiot?"

"Shut up," I grumble.

"Shh, I can't hear the mirror. What's that, magic mirror?" Amaris nods and turns to address me. "The mirror says you're a lil' bitch."

I scowl, pick up a little figurine thing from the table, and peg it at her. It bounces off her ass. Which, to be fair, is formidable.

Amaris whips around, suddenly tense. Her voice drops dangerously. "Oh, you wanna go, princess?"

"Princess? I just called _you _princess."

"Yeah, well, you're princess too, princess."

I jab a finger in the direction of the Five boy onscreen. As much as I resent his cheekbones, I have to admit I wouldn't mind seeing him on his hands and knees. "I think he's also princess."

"What-the-fuck-ever," Amaris says exasperatedly. "We can, like, number ourselves or something. I call Princess One."

"You know what? Fine. You can be Princess One."

The screen finally moves on to District Six, where an athletic-looking but clearly shocked, shaken girl is Reaped. The voiceover confides that she's the Head Peacekeeper's daughter. _Sucks when the nepotism doesn't quite come through for you, doesn't it, darling?_

The girl's District partner swears spectacularly when his name is called, but then ties his hair up with a shoelace and strolls up to the podium, giving the crowd a winning smile. He's strong, too, and seems charismatic. Hmm.

The Seven girl is tall and fairly muscular-looking. Her blank reaction doesn't give away much, but a girl in the crowd starts screaming bloody murder. The boy is average height, cheerful-looking, blond and slim but definitely an athlete, one of those guys you can tell at a glance has been playing soccer since he was two. His reaction is a blatant _oh shit, _but he takes the stage calmly.

"Looks competitive this year," Amaris says with a sly sidelong glance, flipping the sofa upright.

"Sucks for you."

"Not really," she shrugs. "I'm still the best. But you'll be lucky to survive the first day."

"You all keep forgetting I volunteered for this," I yawn.

"On impulse."

"An impulse I stand by."

She raises an eyebrow. "You sure about that… princess?"

"Sure. Strong tributes make things more interesting."

The Eight girl is stocky for a thirteen-year-old, but just too young to pose a real threat, although she's got an odd kind of charisma to her. Her partner, another surprise volunteer, is tall and dark-haired like me, but with some muscle to him—the bastard—and sharp, handsome features. His posture is guarded and hostile, but he volunteered for a kid who must be his friend; he can't be as cold as he's acting.

Amaris laughs at my scowl. "Do we need to have a beauty pageant to see who's the fairest of them all?"

"You already used that reference."

"It's an extended metaphor, dumbass."

"That's not what a metaphor is, dipstick."

"Douchecaptain."

"Asstown."

"Asstown? First of all, I already used 'ass'," she lectures. "Second, what the colossal fuck is that even supposed to mean?"

"It means you're an ass, only instead of just one ass, you're a whole town full of asses," I explain patiently. "Obviously."

Amaris considers that, then nods. "You know what? That's fair. Very logical; I like that."

"Thank you, I try."

"I'll still kill you, though."

"Oh, I have little doubt."

Around District Nine, things get weird. The girl is your everyday underfed street kid, but the boy is bad news at a glance. Small and skinny, pale, gray-eyed, white-blond hair. He goes dead still when his name is called. It's more than shock, it's upright, conscious catatonia.

Amaris frowns. "You getting a crazy vibe? I'm getting a crazy vibe, hardcore."

"I feel that," I agree. "Crazy eyes. Oh, man, he is _pissed._"

The boy blinks, shakes himself out of whatever he's fallen into, and takes a step toward the stage. His eyes narrow. He speeds up a little until he's sprinting headlong at the front of the Square, and even with the camera zoomed out I can see bared teeth. The Peacekeepers seem to realize that perhaps this is a problem and shift in his direction, but he's already within lunging distance of the escort–

The screen switches to District Ten.

"Aw, come on," Amaris complains. "I wanted to see that."

The Ten girl, a tall, calm, solid-looking rancher, seems to herald a return to normalcy, but her partner fucks it up again. He's a hulking beast of a boy. The announcer gleefully informs us that his name—Fenris—was given to him thanks to his curious habit of murdering livestock with his hands and teeth. He's been civilized since then, the voiceover goes on… or has he? Dun dun dunnn. Cue dramatic music.

I blink. "What the fuck?"

"Holy _shit, _though," Amaris cackles. "This is gonna be fucked up. I want him and the Nine boy locked in a room."

"I want him and the _Five_ boy locked in a room," I say thoughtfully.

Amaris frowns. "What?"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Whatever," she grumbles.

Eleven yields a Romani-looking girl who's distracted by what must be either her best friend or girlfriend passing the fuck out on her. The boy is small, young, and scared-looking, obvious cannon-fodder. Twelve's girl is skinny, serious-looking, and reminds me a bit of a horse. The boy is another whopper of a human being, definitely from the mines, although there's something good-natured in his face.

Amaris rewinds it to the Career Districts. The One girl, Amelia, looks tall and strong—_really _strong—and like she's had one too many plastic surgeries. The boy, Ashler, is equally tall and athletic, gray-eyed and blond-haired. Both of then seem confident and at ease. The Twos are formidable as well, with Merona, a pale redheaded girl, and Jaiven, a tanned blond boy. So it's a full Career pack this year, aside from me. I can't wait to meet them. I'm sure we'll be one big, happy family.

We watch the Threes for completeness's sake. They're both short, but the boy looks sinewy and quick, if terrified, and the girl looks ruthless.

Amaris makes a _not bad _face. "Damn. Strong field this year."

"Whatever."

"I wonder who'll kill you, if I don't?"

I shrug. "I'll probably have a heart attack brought on by your unfathomable stupidity."

"I don't think that's medically possible. So who's the dumbass now, dumbass?"

"Still you. Your ass is _so _dumb," I accuse. "Your ass failed kindergarten."

"Well, _your _ass didn't even make it through preschool."

Actually, I did get kicked out of preschool for making the other kids cry, but that's not the point. "Yeah, well, fuck you."

"You wish."

"_You _wish."

Amaris stares at me long and hard, until I'm sure she's about to either deliver some kind of epic comeback or knock me out. She takes a deep breath. "Ugh."

"Ugh?" I protest. "That's it? Ugh?"

"That's all you're worth. Princess."

The _nerve._

**… ****Yeah, I don't know what happened here either. The Careers are scary, I promise. So now every tribute has at least been briefly introduced. Thoughts? Bets? Requests for ultimate showdowns of ultimate destiny?**


	12. Train Ride: Luther

**THIS IS IMPORTANT, READ IT. So this turned out much, much worse than I intended, i.e. it devolved into outright noncon. Well, really it's only sexual for a paragraph or so, but… still. Big ol' rape tw for this whole chapter. When I said give me nasty characters, I got some nasty ones, and then I got some ****_really, really nasty ones. _****O_o**

**But really. Seriously. This is wildly inappropriate, borderline explicit, and I'm having serious doubts about publishing it at all. Please, please just skip it if it'll make you uncomfortable. PM me if you don't want to read it but want a rundown of the characterization, backstory, etc. revealed in this chapter, or more specific clarification of what does and doesn't happen in here. I just really don't want this stupid-ass fic ruining anyone's day.**

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Peacekeepers do not all come from District Two.

Moving the brightest minds in Panem disproportionately to District Five has had an interesting effect over the years: we are, collectively, very smart. The upper class, anyway. There's a lower class of people who have been in Five since the very beginning, but they're mostly the ones who work at grocery stores and mop up chemical spills. The class that defines District Five—the one that runs the power plants and does the experiments too dangerous to be conducted at the Capitol—is, on average, point eight standard deviations more intelligent than the Panem mean.

Of those people, plus high-testing kids shipped in from other Districts, the best of the best go to the Trade Institute at age twelve, where they're tracked into whatever path will lead them to the vocation they score best for. The Solars. The Nukes. The Meds. Drilled and formed into the Capitol's fresh batch of eggheads.

There's another round of selection at age fourteen, but you don't know about it unless you're chosen. Tactics. I was chosen.

It's the most cutthroat, ruthless, high-stress experience out there, except maybe the Hunger Games. Everything is a competition. Everything counts. More money is being poured into you than the entire population of District Twelve and you will be worth it or else. You make the cut, or you kiss your heartbeat goodbye, because you're not going home. Can't have anyone spilling anything. As far as anyone outside Tactics knows, we all tragically vanished when we were fourteen, and that's all they'll ever know.

I'm near the top of the class. Not at the top. That's how you make yourself a target. I also happen to be the personal favorite of the officer in charge of testing and admissions, and I learn some interesting things that way. For example: Ariel Sevasti was seriously considered for admission, but rejected when closer observation revealed him to be a flouncing, self-absorbed prima donna.

And he is indeed vain, and melodramatic, and the single raunchiest, randiest bastard I've ever met. But I know, quantitatively, just how intelligent and ruthless he is. It will be interesting to watch everyone else underestimate him, and to watch him underestimate me. He has his odd, ethereal kind of cleverness. You could exhaust yourself chasing phantoms, trying to figure him out. But he's in there somewhere. If you strike out into the mist and keep going, no matter what, no matter how merciless you have to be, you can get him by the throat.

Metaphorically. Doing so literally is far less contentious; the boy is obsessed and insatiable.

I have the upper hand when he inevitably ends up in my bed. He's used to instant gratification. People fall under his spell and lose themselves with him, or do exactly what he says for fear he'll change his mind. But I stay calm and plan ahead. If he objects, I listen, but I ignore his orders and complaints until they fade away into shaky pleas, which I also ignore. No patience. It's like he's never been teased before.

It helps that both of us managed to bring backpacks aboard the train despite rules to the contrary. I achieved it by simply asking one of the Peacekeepers who's primarily loyal to Tactics, not the Capitol. Ariel, I am led to believe from the way he winked when I asked, resorted to… more questionable methods of getting his way. My backpack is full of books, strategic drugs, and weapons. His contains handcuffs and far worse things. Everything I find, I turn on him. This, I think, was his plan, although I intend to make it more than he bargained for.

There's also something I'm not expecting: notes. Several notebooks of scribbled equations. I'm not specifically familiar with it, but it's Nuke stuff. High-level. Maybe not even part of the curriculum. His handwriting is as beautiful as he is, sharp, slanted cursive, with an odd twist to the Zs. It's an odd task, reconciling the dignity of the equations with the trembling mess of a boy on my bed who apparently wrote them.

I've never had the opportunity to do this before, although the idea has always intrigued me. But the circumstances are perfect: a room to myself, my own bag of tricks, plus Ariel's as a bonus, and of course Ariel himself. So agreeably cooperative when I tied him to the bed. Not the slightest hint of hesitation, or any notion that maybe, just maybe, I am not a person who should be trusted with absolute power over his body and mind.

Too late. He's all mine now.

It's an oddly entertaining thought, how many people would kill to be in my position, when Ariel's looks barely matter to me. I'm just happy he's so beautiful because it means he's not prepared. He's used to being used and experienced and touched and groped; no one has the patience to really map him out and reach the parts of him he doesn't whore out. I bet no one has ever done what I'm about to do, which is temporarily break him just to see if I can.

I can, as it turns out. It's apparent within a pathetically short amount of time. I'm not done yet, but I know at a glance that I've already won.

Step one is to play along. Go through his standard procedure. Tie him up and get him the kind of desperate he's used to, which requires getting a bit more up close and personal than I prefer, but so it goes.

Step two is to swing things my way, but not enough to scare him. Put my gloves on before I touch him again. Refuse his indignant requests that I at least take my shirt off. Tighten the ropes from something that playfully restricts his movements into something much more serious. He's going nowhere without my permission.

Step three, I hurt him. Standard underground club stuff, nothing he won't be familiar with, even if he hasn't done it personally. A bit of nervous laughter, pointing out that he never said I could do that sort of thing, but whatever, he'll safeword if it's a problem.

Then I switch from the stupid, theatrical stuff to things I learned in Tactics. Ariel yelps as my fingernails dig into a pressure point on his neck.

"Ease off a little," he gasps, tugging at the ropes as he tries to pull away. "Where'd you even _get _that fr-?"

I cut him off with another sharp jab, clapping a hand over his mouth when he breathes in sharply and I know he's about to yell.

"Ow," he says weakly once I let him go. "Yeah, no more of that."

I raise an eyebrow, look him dead in the eye, and do it again.

He bites back the yell himself this time. "Luther," he says incredulously. "I said no."

"Hmm. I assumed there was nothing you didn't like."

"You assumed wrong. Let me go. You're freaking me out."

"No."

"What the fuck do you mean, no?" he snarls, fighting the ropes again, but now I think he wants to attack me. Note to self: Ariel can get very angry, very quickly.

I ignore him, feeling along his ribs for a different pressure point, leaning the palm of my hand on his sternum to keep the thrashing to a minimum. This is lovely; I've never gotten to practice like this before. The only problem is Ariel. I'm getting increasingly impatient with him; he needs to stay still and be a good guinea pig, but I suspect he'll bite me if I give him half a chance.

"Luther," he spits, right on cue. "I said let me _go_."

"Stop asking me that."

"I'm not fucking _asking!" _he screams, achieving surprising volume for someone so slim. That's going to be a problem for both of us. "I'm _telling _you to let me go or I swear to the Capitol I will get a vial of polonium and ram it up your motherfucking–"

"Language," I mutter, pinching the place on his ribs I was looking for and getting a piercing screech for it. "Hmm. Yeah, you need to shut up. Hang on."

He watches in disbelief, breathing hard, as I pull a bottle of pills from my bag and a gag from his. "No," he mutters. "You have got to be kidding me. We're not even in the Games yet, what the _fuck _are you-?"

I stuff four pills in his mouth and gag him. Four might be overdoing it by a tiny bit, but he'll be fine, if a little dizzier than usual tomorrow. I don't think he needs to remember this. The Games will pit us against each other, of course, but there's no call to have anyone out for my blood specifically.

I ignore the icy, glittering rage in his eyes. It doesn't last long. Soon there's just pain, and then fear, and then desperation, and then the drugs kick in and it's a dreamy, dumb-animal sort of all three mixed together. That can't be fun, but it's not my problem.

I throw in a bit of what he came here for, both to make things interesting and because it works. He's just lucid enough to blush and squeeze his eyes shut like I'm breaking his heart. Funny, he didn't seem very shy or modest before.

At last it's time to see if I've succeeded. I take the gag off, bracing for a torrent of profanity, but he only stares at the ceiling silently. I clutch my shock stick in one hand and carefully untie his wrists with the other. He just lies there, perfectly still aside from the occasional shiver.

Victory. I _told _Levin she should've signed me up for that interrogation class.

Only I haven't gotten to that part yet. "Ariel?" I say gently.

He flinches at the sound of my voice despite its softness. How very Pavlovian. I like it.

"You're a Nuke, right?"

"Yeah," he whispers.

"Who's in charge of the facility you work at?"

"Wiltshire."

"Does anything happen there that's against the law?"

"I dunno," he mumbles.

"Yes, you do," I say softly, brushing my fingers along the bottom of his ribs. He makes a little squeaking noise and flinches again, but doesn't even try to draw away. I don't think he realizes he's not tied up anymore.

"I-I operate the reactor sometimes." His voice is still barely audible, but comes out in a rush. "Because we're understaffed."

Well, that's boring, but it's proof of concept; that's obviously not something he'd usually tell me.

"Anything else?"

"There are some P-Peacekeepers in gray jackets sometimes, but I don't know what they do."

Gray jackets? That's Tactics. And I do happen to know about some experiments being done at a Nuke facility.

"Do you work at H-12, by any chance?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Fancy that. Small world. Stand up."

It takes him a second to remember where his limbs are, but he manages it. I throw the room's spare blanket around his shoulders and propel him out my door, pushing him down the hallway to the common car. There's another blanket on the sofa in there. Upon reflection, I take mine back and give him that one instead. Evidence and all. No need to jog his memory about the blur that will be tonight.

I push him down on the sofa and tuck him in neatly. "There you go. Sweet dreams."

xxx

He's gone when I come out for breakfast the next morning. But a few minutes after I return to my room, the door opens. Ariel flounces in and flops onto my sofa even though I'm already there, stretching out full-length, his back on my lap. "Morning. Did we fuck?"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know," he yawns, holding his wrist up to display purple bruises. "No idea what happened, but _something _did."

"Maybe you banged the escort?" I suggest. "She seems like the type who'd share drugs with you."

"Huh. Yeah, maybe," he agrees.

**… ****Welp. Hopefully I gave fair warning for that, both at the beginning of the chapter and earlier when I said this whole fic was going straight to hell. Please don't hate me too much.**


	13. Train Ride: Des (or, You Can Look Now)

**So I tried to write a sadistic, psychopathic character as actually being sadistic and psychopathic and I think I made everyone, most of all myself, uncomfortable. I'm sorry for not making it clear when you submitted that this might get really dark, but, well, even I wasn't expecting that sort of thing to happen. At least it's all uphill from here? Except probably not?**

**And now back to our regularly scheduled non-terrible-things. Ha. Hahaha. Just kidding, it'll still be terrible, just more of the everyday blood and guts stuff.**

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

It takes me a few tries, but soon I can launch grapes from the table to my mouth using my fork as a catapult. Most of the time, anyway.

"I think your best bet is– Are either of you listening?" our mentor Polla sighs.

I sneak a glance at Atlas, who's slouching in the chair next to me, staring blankly at his plate. He ignores her.

"We're listening, sorry," I say on both of our behalves. I was listening, actually. I just happen to be able to listen and catapult grapes at the same time. It's a real talent, I think.

"Desdemona, your–"

"You can call me Des," I interrupt. "Er, sorry. Go on. Just, you know, it's a bit of a mouthful."

Polla smiles. "Des, I think you should ally with the outer District girls. I'm thinking Seven and Ten, maybe Eleven and Twelve. Three, too, if she turns out to be nicer than she looks. They look strong and with any luck they won't turn on you."

"Okay," I agree. Girl power alliance. I like it.

"Atlas, you could try to join that alliance if you want, but I think you'd be better suited to a smaller one. Someone rural. I hate to be rude, but you've barely got anything practical to offer but physical strength, so it will have to be someone who can't fight well. The Eleven boy, maybe? He'll be comfortable outdoors, but he's small."

Atlas frowns. "Fine, but how do you know it'll be outdoors?"

"I don't know for sure. It just usually is."

"Hmm. Okay."

"You don't sound certain," Polla says with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, it's just… what if it _isn't _outdoors? Then what do I do with my little nature guide?"

"Protect him. Kill him. That's up to you."

Atlas mutters something that sounds like profanity.

He's okay. He doesn't go out of his way to be malicious, but he's grumpy and distant. Difficult to talk to. I don't say it out loud, but I think Polla had an ulterior motive for suggesting we pursue separate alliances: he'll have a much harder time getting one. He's certainly stronger than me, but I'm more approachable, I guess.

"Nearly a full Career pack," Polla mutters, more to herself than us. "And they might go after the big boys from Ten or Twelve to make up for the rogue volunteer from Four. No chance of an outright battle with them going well. Either the arena has to get them or they have to self-destruct."

"Nothing we can do?" I ask.

"Just pay attention. See how cohesive they seem. If they argue a lot, the big pack won't last, but then you'll have lone Careers prowling around. That can be worse."

I sigh and catapult another grape, but I've been moving around while we talked and I lost my range. The grape bounces off my nose. Of course it does, I think grumpily. My nose is the size of a traffic cone.

Mom and Rosalind, of course, say my nose is totally fine. I _kind _of believe them, sometimes. But sometimes I'm not convinced.

Just like that, I'm daydreaming. Thinking of them doesn't make me sad, exactly, but it makes me not want to do anything else. I wonder if they've been forced to go to work today. Probably. They're both pretty important, an electrical engineer and a head tech operator, respectively. I don't want to lose them and I know they don't want to lose me. The separation is more an ache than a real pain, too inevitable to feel sharply. It just _is. _It's done. I'm on my own now.

But at least, until the moment I die, I'll have the memories of Rosalind pulling my hair into a bun despite my hair's intentions to the contrary on the morning of the Reaping, Mom teaching me little techniques of math and circuitry on weekends just for something to do. At least I _was _happy. I'm not dying with that box unchecked. I got a lot more out of thirteen years than plenty of people will out of their entire life.

Atlas gives me a weird, sidelong look, and I realize I'm bouncing back and forth in my seat. "Er," I say. "Sorry. What were we talking about?"

Polla frowns in a way that's obviously a concealed smile. "Don't get killed by Careers, in so many words."

I chew my lip and nod. "Advice duly noted. I'll do my best."

"There's always a weak link. If you're cornered, catch the eye of whoever looks the most sympathetic and give them puppy dog eyes for all you're worth. If nothing else, they'll stall the rest and it could buy you time."

I look at myself in one of the omnipresent mirrors. Puppy-dog eyes? I've never tried. But after pulling a few faces at myself, I find one that seems sufficiently pathetic.

"Now, chariots. That depends on who your stylist is, actually, which your escort _still _hasn't told me," Polla grumbles, heaving herself up from the table shakily. "Excuse me a moment while I find that banshee nightmare flamingo woman."

She grabs her cane from the wall and totters out of the train car, leaving me alone with Atlas. I expect him to keep glaring at the silverware, but he turns to me immediately. "So."

"So," I agree. He's at least a foot taller than me and solidly broad-shouldered. I'm not going to suck up, but I have no intention of picking a fight, either.

"You're taking this pretty well," he says. His voice is almost hesitant, like _he's _intimidated by _me. _What?

I shrug. "I could cry, but it wouldn't help. I'd be more upset and everyone at home would be upset that I'm upset and it would add to the drama and the Hunger Games would rake in more ad revenue. Screw that."

"Ad revenue," Atlas repeated. "Huh. Didn't even think of that. Those fuckers."

He's a good guy, I think. But weird. He means well, but he doesn't know it, so there's an uncertainty to everything he says and does that makes you question his intentions until you figure it out.

"If I _do _get into an alliance, do you want to be part of it too?" I offer. "If you don't want to ally with the Eleven boy?"

"Maybe," he says slowly. "I want to meet everyone first. But… thanks, I appreciate that."

"No problem."

"Guess you're a better ambassador than me, aren't you?" he laughs.

I blink. "Uh… I don't know."

I do know. It's true. He's handsome, in an out-of-my-range-of-interest, older boy sort of way, but something about him reminds me of a bird of ill omen. I can picture him sitting on a telephone pole cawing at people when they're about to die.

Okay, maybe that mental image is a _bit _improbable, but still. He's got the _spirit _for lurking in high places and cawing at unsuspecting passers by.

Polla throws the door open unceremoniously and clumps back in. "Okay, bad news. Your stylist is an idiot."

"Oh," I say.

"There's nothing you can do to make the chariots go well, so just try not to make them a disaster, and mentally prepare yourselves to be paraded in front of millions of people dressed as spools of thread or something."

Atlas and I exchange alarmed glances. "Okay," I say for both of us.

"Now, the interview angle: Desdemona– I mean Des, you can be fairly straightforward. You're the youngest tribute and that's a decent strategy. Just be yourself. Atlas…" She rolls her eyes. "If you're comfortable with it, the flirty angle could work for you." She says "flirty" how some District people say "Capitol."

Atlas's face is unreadable. "I can do that, yeah."

"Okay. Well, make it good, because from the looks of the rest you won't be the only one using that angle." Another eye roll. "Be charming, but be a gentleman. Nothing dirty.

The train emerges from a tunnel and my eyes go wide. The Capitol. "Wow," I gasp, jumping up from the table and running to the window without thinking.

Everything is bright and colorful and huge. We're still a ways out, winding down the side of a mountain into the valley the Capitol sits in, but the lights alone are the most impressive thing I've ever seen. Every color of the rainbow, wound along and built into every surface, blasting into the sky.

"Those fuckers," Atlas mutters again, but he's joined me at the window, his nose practically pressed to the glass.

"Yeah," I agree breathlessly.

It's like a fairy tale. The buildings remind me of fancy cakes. There are fireworks above what must be the President's manor, and they seem to move in slow motion. They're for us, I guess, or about us, at least. It's absurd, but beautiful nonetheless.

Atlas turns his back with a disgusted breath and a sidelong glance at me.

"What?" I protest.

"Not mad at you. Just, you shouldn't be here."

I shrug. "No point in worrying about it. It's different, at least. The food's good. Enjoy it while it lasts."

Now he looks sick.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Stupid question, I guess. Just because he volunteered doesn't mean he isn't scared to die.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and turns to Polla. "What are our chances? Be honest."

"For you… well, it's mostly a matter of–"

"Not me," Atlas cuts her off. "Her."

Polla glances at me and frowns. "How does me speculating help anything?"

"If I'm old enough to get murdered, I'm old enough to know about it," I point out.

She considers that and nods. "Fine, then. Without intervention, the chances are slim to none. But you're the obvious underdog. If the Gamemakers decide they want an upset, you're a good choice. If not…"

I understand where she's going with it. "Gotcha."

Okay. Well… let's do this, I guess.

**So… you guys still here after that last one? :P**


	14. Chariots: Jukai

**Whoops, fell off my usual schedule. Midterms, boo.**

**Educational fun fact of the day: particularly for someone who works with quantum physics, the Bohr model—that's the nucleus in the center with the electrons orbiting it in circles like planets—is spectacularly obsolete. It's basically a really rough approximation of an atom that explains some effects, but is mostly useless once you're working past a certain level of detail.**

**Jukai Westell, District Seven, 18**

I study myself in the mirror thoughtfully. "So what am I supposed to be, exactly?"

"Forest spirit," my stylist says in his soft, spaced-out voice. "You are one with the trees. Yes."

I purse my lips at my reflection and nod. "Okay. Sure."

I learned quickly that he's one of those people you have to just go along with, mostly because he's high as a kite and any objection I make bounces right off anyway. It could be worse, I guess. At least I'm not a lumberjack for the ten thousand and second year in a row. I'm not sure the dainty brown leather leggings really go with my hairy soccer calves, but whatever. It probably looks good on Kaya, anyway, wherever they dragged her off to.

The stylist's face lights up. He gives me a _you're gonna love this _look and digs around in a drawer.

"Wait, now what are you-? Oh, I get a flower crown, okay, that's… okay," I trail off weakly. But whatever, I could prance out there in a ball gown and still look macho compared to some of those other guys. "So is that it? We done here?"

The stylist gives me a ditzy smile and makes a spinning gesture with his finger.

"What?"

He does it again.

"You… you want me to twirl? Is that it?"

He nods.

I think about it for a solid three milliseconds. "Yeah, you know what, I'm gonna have to pass on that one, sorry."

My stylist's face falls. I feel bad, but honestly.

"So… do I go out there now?"

He nods glumly.

"Cool. Well, thanks, man. I think I look good."

That cheers him up a little. He ushers me out the door to the elevator. It's a silent, herb-scented ride down, then we step out into utter insanity.

The first person I notice is the pale-haired District Nine boy crouched way too close to me, wide-eyed and tense. His posture reminds me of a horror movie monster that stays right where it is until you get too comfortable, and then pounces and rips your face off. I give him a polite nod and promptly remove myself to the other side of the hangar-sized room.

It would be hard to find the other tributes in the clamor if not for the ridiculous outfits. Some worse than others, of course. The higher Districts are formidable, even the Threes in all black and neon. The Careers look awesome as always—admittedly very revealing diamond clothes for the Ones, a gold dress and suit for the Twos, and flowing sea-foam colored outfits for the Fours. Things start to break down around the Fives, who seem to be giving each other the _we-will-never-speak-of-this-again_ cold shoulder. The girl is in the chariot, her posture upright like a soldier but her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed, staring straight ahead. The unnervingly pretty boy is crouched against the chariot wheel, his head in his hands. He looks like he might cry.

"The Bohr model," he mutters under his breath, his tone one of utter horror. "Oh, gracious. The _Bohr _model."

He does indeed seem to be dressed up as an atom. Fake electrons orbit his head on wire frames. I don't see anything wrong with it, but who knows; he struck me as a bit of a freak show. I keep walking.

The Six boy is a chauffeur and the girl is in a black jumpsuit with strips of LEDs. Could be worse.

"I'm a runway," she grumbles when she catches me looking.

"Oh. That makes sense."

She mutters what sounds like profanity under her breath.

"Well, nice to meet you too."

The boy catches my arm as I'm turning to leave. He's maybe an inch and some change shorter than me, but a bit more muscular. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Jukai, you?" I say, adjusting my flower crown self-consciously. It does smell nice, though.

"Ted. So are you one of the sane ones?" he asks, running a hand over his chin and frowning a little like what he finds there isn't what he expected.

"Uh… I guess so. No one's ever told me otherwise."

"Yeah, you seem normal," he decides. "The bar's pretty low around here, I think. I mean, you're up against the Interrogation Queen over here."

"Hey," his District partner snaps.

"Just messing with you."

She scowls and crosses her arms. "I didn't do anything crazy. You wouldn't even know if the mentor didn't ask."

"I know, I know. I'm not trying to judge your life. Just saying it's not the _most _normal thing to spend your time torturing people in your Dad's basement."

"Yeah, well."

Ted turns back to me. "This is Reyna," he explains. "She's fine, just angry. Be nice to her or she'll probably do something awful to you."

Reyna's expression brightens. "Yeah, I might."

"Oh," I say for lack of anything better. "I guess that's good to know. Nice to meet you."

"So what'd you do?"

It's such a non sequitur that for a second I'm not sure she's talking to me. "Huh?"

"You know. To get Reaped. What'd you do wrong?"

"I… Does it work that way?" I ask. "I don't think it works that way."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course it works that way. So what was it?"

I consider it. "Huh. Um… man, I really don't know. Nothing that's worth the death penalty, that's for sure."

"It might not be," Ted points out. "Maybe you'll live. Think positive."

"There you go," I agree. "Only way to be. Could be I'll just be traumatized for life."

Would I be? I have no idea. I'm a horror-movie-and-violent-video-games kind of guy, yeah, but still. Soccer is the most violent thing I do in real live, and I'm far from the meanest guy out there. I'm not the kid who stands up to the bully, but I'm not a bully, either, or at least I don't mean to me. Not a reject or the leader of the pack. I'm just _here, _doing my thing, getting B's at life. I can't imagine myself killing anyone, but I know most people are the same way, right up until they get into the Hunger Games. Could I really kill someone to save my own life?

Guess I'll find out in a few days.

Ted does the touching-his-chin-and-looking-freaked-out thing again.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

He does a huffy little half-laugh. "I usually have a beard, but my stylist didn't like it."

I glance down at my leggings with a sigh. Closer to tights, but I'd rather not confront that reality. "Yeah, they're stubborn, aren't they?"

"They don't mean any harm, I guess."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"So."

"So," Ted agrees. "Look, I'll cut to the chase here. You seem like someone who could watch my back in a fight and not stab me in it. I can do the same for you. Interested in allying?"

"Yeah," I say immediately. Ted is pretty much exactly what my mentor told me to find, a guy who won't slow me down and can give me some safety to sleep. He doesn't strike me as the type who'll take his moral code to the grave, but I don't think he'd kill me just for kicks, either. He's pragmatic. I'll have to worry about him eventually, but I'll deal with that when it happens.

"Well… good. Let's talk during training and work out a strategy."

"Sounds good. What about, uh…?" I trail off awkwardly, half-gesturing at Reyna, who's been watching the whole conversation like a hawk. She's one of those girls who's just tall and muscular enough to make me wonder if she could actually hurt me, and the look on her face says _yes, jackass, I can._

"No," she says.

"Okay."

"See you tomorrow, then?" Ted says.

"See you."

I keep walking down the chariot line, making it to District Eight before I remember that I'm from Seven and seven comes after six. Right.

Kaya's still not there. I wish she were. We're a little awkward with each other, but we're getting better, and it'd be nice to have someone to talk to. I never know what to do with myself when I'm alone in public. Usually I'd text someone, or pretend to text someone, or play some stupid game, but they took all the contents of my pockets after the Reaping, including my phone. All I've got left is my token, a string bracelet my little sister made me for my first Reaping. It was supposed to be for good luck. Well, it's a nice thought, and it did come painfully close to letting me age out to safety.

Then again, as much as it sucks to get Reaped with the end in sight, better now than six years ago. Careers aside, I've got to be one of the stronger tributes, and certainly among the fastest. The Ten and Twelve boys could snap me in half, but they'd never catch me. I feel bad for people like the stocky thirteen-year-old girl from Eight. What chance does she have against… well… me? It's not fair.

I resolve that, no matter what, I'm not killing her. Nor the fourteen-year-old dude from Eleven, or the slightly older girl from Nine. No one who just looks like a little kid to me. I don't want to die, but I _really _don't want to do that. Better dead than a monster.

**Oh hey, also don't forget I'm posting the theme songs. No idea if anyone but me cares about them, but if I've already done your character, check and make sure I didn't post some weird cover version of it or something.**


	15. Chariots: Ravy

**Last chariot: here comes Mr. Exposition! Sorry this is not the most exciting thing in the world, but I think the story is more fun if you have at least a vague idea of who's who.**

**Ravy Calgary, District Twelve, 18**

I don't know whether it's the fact that I'm quiet, or that I work in the mines, or that I'm six foot three and almost always the biggest guy in the room, but people have a habit of assigning a personality to me. First I'm scary. Once they realize I'm not going to push them around, I'm the dumb, gentle giant.

It doesn't bother me. It's kind of funny. And it means that despite being physically big, I always find myself as the fly on the wall, picking up on all kinds of things people assume I'll miss.

People-watching is one of my favorite things. I like to see how much I can tell about people just from watching them walk by. I do okay with the logical side—guess occupations and priorities from their clothes, that sort of thing—but I'm better with the intuitive stuff. Weird little details about people's expressions and strides and everything in between. I couldn't explain exactly what I'm seeing that tells me about them, but I'm almost always right.

It'll serve me well in the Games, I think. Everyone thinks the Hunger Games are about being the best fighter, but if that were true a Career boy should win every year, and it doesn't work that way. It's about knowing who you're up against. _Tiny girl with gun_ trumps _huge boy_ if she's out of grabbing distance.

The first person I studied, of course, was my District partner Felicity. She's young, only fourteen. Her personality reminds me of water. She's wishy-washy and non-confrontational, but that's because she hasn't come into her own yet. There's nothing she's passionate about and she hasn't had that mid-to-late teenage epiphany of _damn it, I'm here, I've got every right to be here, I'm as important as anyone, I'll fight for respect if you make me. _She makes me think of pale blue. When someone tries to kill her, she'll either stand there and let them or snap and fight like a rabid animal.

It's a long walk to my chariot and I'm one of the last ones out. I take full advantage of it, trying to get a read on anything other people might not notice. The One girl immediately strikes me as an anomaly. She's not sure how to feel about her clothes. She's happy, but uncomfortable, like she's worried other people will have some kind of problem with how she's dressed. It's risqué, but District One usually is, so…?

Hmm. She's had a _lot _of plastic surgery done. She's almost six feet tall. She mutters something to her District partner, and I can't hear exactly what she's saying, but the pitch of her voice confirms my suspicions: she's trans. Not the most useful information, but oh well.

The One boy, as far as I can see, is par for the Career course: physically powerful, arrogant, but charismatic; not a genius, but not an idiot either. The Two boy is equally big and strong, but the air he casts is more calm and solid. He glances up like he senses my attention on him. We regard each other for a second, not exactly hostile, but not friendly either, more of a mutual acceptance that we're sizing each other up for a potential fight to the death. Nothing personal. The Two girl is watching me too, but there's a smug challenge in her expression. She's reading me and I think she's getting something, but she's naive, sort of. Beautiful, but in a glossy, uninteresting sort of way. She's dangerous, but she doesn't see things clearly.

I break her gaze and keep walking. The Threes are shoulder-to-shoulder, talking under their breath. The boy's attention is one hundred percent on the girl. I can tell at a glance that his pulse is going a million miles an hour just because their arms are touching. They both could've stepped out of a cyberpunk movie, him as the hair-dyed, tattooed street punk, her the android queen. The girl is listening to him, but keeping an eye on things, too. She catches my eye within a second of me looking at them. Her expression is flat and unreadable, but she doesn't look away. There's something regal and unshakably certain about her bearing. The boy is more of a physical threat—he's got that kind of wiry, whipcord muscle that promises reflexes like a housefly—but something tells me he'll fight if and only if she tells him to.

There's a grudging respect between the Fours. They'd happily murder each other, but they enjoy each other's company. They're squabbling right now, elbowing each other out of their half of the chariot, trading colorful threats and insults. The Career pack, I think, is going to be lively this year. I wish the Two boy luck; he'll be saddled with the role of peacemaker. The Fours and the Two girl will fight, the One boy doesn't have the people skills or the inclination to handle it, and the One girl is too hesitant and used to working around other people's strong opinions. How long until he snaps, I wonder?

The Fives are a writhing nest of dysfunctionality. Not on the surface; at first glance she's stoic and vaguely irritated, he's upset about the costume. But he's scared of her. She knows he's scared, and she's smug about it. He knows she's smug, and he's angry. She doesn't know he's angry. He hides it so well even I'm not positive about what I'm seeing, but the signs are there. Flashes of a lucid, dead seriousness when he thinks no one's looking and drops the airhead act for a second. Sidelong glances at her, like he's looking for weaknesses, or just fantasizing about murdering her. It's the scary, cold kind of anger. I make a mental note to have nothing to do with whatever's going on there.

The Six and Seven boys are chatting, except they have to half-yell to hear each other across the Seven chariot's horses. Seven is promising Six to teach him how to juggle a soccer ball if he can find one. I think they're both pretty normal people; they'll do what they have to, but they're not out to get anyone. The Six girl is glaring at everyone in sight. She's scared. She feels obligated to hate everyone for some reason, but it's partly forced.

As I study them, the Seven girl squeezes between me and a few Capitol workers, muttering an apology and not meeting my eyes. She's on the tall side, with freckles and auburn hair. Another bastion of sanity, I think, albeit one with a quick intelligence in the way she "accidentally" glances at me as she sweeps her eyes across the room. Someone who keeps her cards close. There's no malice to her, but I think she'll play the game by her own rules.

"What're you doing?"

I turn to find the Eight boy leaning against the side of his chariot, watching me with a kind of detached wariness that could tip toward hostility or trust. He's big, although not as big as me, and handsome, I suppose. Definitely intimidating at first glance, and he plays it up, but he's another one who doesn't mean anyone any real harm.

"What, me?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"I don't know. People-watching."

He smiles crookedly. "Yeah? What do you see?"

"Bunch of lunatics, mostly. Some not."

"Not yet. Give it time"

"Guess so."

He nods and doesn't seem to want to say anything else, so I keep walking. The Eight girl isn't out yet, and the Nine boy is still skittering around somewhere. The Nine girl is small, bouncing around her chariot and staring out over the crowd with her face wrinkled worriedly. She's dreading this. Se doesn't want to die, she doesn't want to kill, she doesn't want _anyone _to die. There's a bright intelligence to her, too, but it's skewed by her conviction that she can fix this somehow.

The there's the hulking beast who is the Ten boy. He's plucking at his plaid shirt, shaggy dark hair falling over his forehead, his face scrunched up somewhere between anger and bemusement. He reminds me of a wolf with its snout stuck in a jar. His partner is leaning against the side of the chariot, her weight on one leg, arms crossed, watching him with the air of someone who's not afraid but knows better than to let her guard down. Both of them are around six feet tall, although the girl is leaner, with long orange braids. She strikes me as the quintessential big sister, calm and practical, but with a bit of fire to her. Another one who's not mean, but not about to go down easily.

Same with the Eleven girl. I can't tell whether she's Hispanic or Romani or what, but her skin is olive and her hair is long and dark. She's another one who feels my gaze on her, and her eyes snap up to meet mine. She's proud, although not in the same way as the Careers. Nearly ruthless, I think. Bad things have happened to and in front of her, like the Three girl. The boy is small and elfish, standing behind her uncertainly, clearly unsure of what he's supposed to be doing. He's given up already. He's just letting himself get pushed around until something kills him.

And finally there's Felicity, blinking owlishly in our coal-black chariot. I know she didn't sleep last night; I could hear her pacing through the wall. Then again, I doubt any of us did, except maybe the Careers.

"So we just wave?" she says quietly, looking herself up and down. We are, in a shocking twist of fate, dressed as coal miners. It could've been worse. We could've been _sexy _coal miners. I take a moment to count my lucky stars that Felicity is only fourteen and even the Capitol doesn't usually sink that low.

"That'll work fine. Can't hurt to make eye contact if you want, but just let your eyes go out of focus if that'll make you nervous."

She nods, twisting a strand of dark blond hair around her finger. "No, that's fine. I can do that. How come, though?"

"Just, you know, personal connection. They might remember you better. Get attached."

"Apparently not attached enough to _actually _help," she says with a huffy laugh, then her eyes widen and she looks around like she's realizing what she just said.

The only person paying attention is an Avox combing our horses' manes. She gives us a _don't worry about it _look.

"Oops," Felicity mutters. "Sorry."

I'm not sure why she's apologizing to me. I think it's just a thing she does. Default to mollifying people. "No big deal. I don't blame you."

She sighs and doesn't answer me.

A piercing tone comes over the loudspeaker. The Avoxes and Capitol staff scatter. I guess this is it. There's a nerve-wracking pause, and the doors open.

All I can think of is how many other things I'd rather be doing right now. I could be with my friends. I could be drawing. Hell, I could be in the mines; at least then I'd be making some use of myself. But no, instead I'm dressed up as an impractical, romanticized mockery of what I actually am, waving to a bunch of people I'm not sure are people. It's surreal. My motivation drops through the floor.

But if I turn them against me, I'm dead. And I'm not killing myself on the basis of a temporary existential crisis.

So I suck it up, and I smile, and I wave.

**I should have mentioned earlier that the update-every-day-or-two thing wouldn't last. Tech week and the track season are looming, plus I've got two more midterms coming up, and there's a massive paper I've been putting off, and… you get the idea. But I've finished a Games already, I'll finish this one too, never fear. Eventually. Also, you guys have been super cool. I'm sorry for not replying to all the reviews, because they're awesome, but I really appreciate them, so thank you so much!**


	16. Training: Amelia

**Warning: questionable humor, although if you've made it this far I think you'll be okay. Basically, whenever either of the District Fives is mentioned, it's safe to assume things are about to go south. Point being, here there be dick jokes, kinda.**

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

We're led to the training gym in a shifting, shady-eyed mass. The woman escorting us holds up a hand at the door. "Before you begin training, I have a very important announcement, so listen up," she says with a too-big grin. "You won't want to miss this."

Most of the chatter stops. The Three boy doesn't seem to have heard, but his District partner elbows him and he shuts up a second later.

"There will be no waiting period between your entrance into the Arena and the beginning of the Games. You'll be on the rising platforms as usual, but there are no mines. You may leave your platform as soon as you are able. Are there any questions?"

There are none, although there are plenty of questioning looks thrown around. I guess the obvious inquiry is _why? _But no one wants to ask; if they were willing to share, the lady would've said it already.

"Well, all right then!" she chirps. "Have fun!"

And with that, the Games truly begin. Sure, there will be no murder for a while, but alliances, grudges, and everything in between will be set in motion over the next few minutes.

The Four girl, Amaris, makes a beeline for the swords, and the first round of the inevitable power struggle begins. Ash and I glance at each other. The Four boy, Woohyun, takes a few steps toward the opposite side of the gym, but then seems to remember that his position among the Careers is shaky at best and scrambles after Amaris.

I can tell from the Two girl's face that she's made up her mind to be difficult. But before she can make things awkward, her partner catches my eye, then gestures to the sword station, giving me a polite _shall we? _look. I give him a _we shall _nod. Four out of six, and I don't think Ash is one to pick a fight anyway; he tags along with the Two boy and I. The Two girl scowls, but goes along with it.

Lovely. The gang's all here. And I can already see the tension points; Amaris and the Two girl whose name I can't remember are fixing each other with spectacularly fake smiles, and the Four guy just radiates a bad attitude.

"Well… hi," I say, more to break the tense silence than anything else. "I'm Amelia. I don't remember all of your names, sorry."

The redheaded Two girl looks me up and down. "Were you always Amelia?"

I roll my eyes inwardly, but it bounces right off at this point. "Nope. Were you always nosy?"

The Two boy laughs and steps between us smoothly before his partner can reply. "Hey, I'm Jaiven. Nice to meet you."

The girl leans around him and fixes me with another unfriendly smile. "Merona."

"I'm Ash."

"Amaris."

Everyone turns to the Four boy, who's poking at a sword on a rack, his face scrunched up dubiously. He's attractive, in a slim, pointy, dark-eyed sort of way. Despite his apparent fragility, there's something intimidating about him. Maybe just the height, but I'm not writing off anyone who volunteered from District Four.

"I'm Woohyun," he says with a slight smile. "Hello."

There's a pause while everyone waits to see if anyone else will tell him to fuck off. No one does. Guess he's with us, then.

"Any brilliant strategic ideas, or are we going standard?" Jaiven asks. "You know, take over the Cornucopia, hunt people until final eight, then whoever's left starts trying to kill each other?"

"Works for me," Amaris shrugs.

"Sure."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Great."

Well, this is going beautifully, I can't help thinking. I wonder how long it'll last.

"I changed my mind," Amaris declares. "About this station, I mean. We shouldn't be messing around with swords; we all know how to use them. Except Woohyun."

He shrugs. "I might."

"But you don't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I would know if you did, ugh."

"Maybe I trained in secret."

"But you _didn't," _Amaris says, a bit manically, her face an inch from his.

"How about this," Jaiven suggests. "Woohyun picks a weapon and learns it. Works on it all three days. He won't have to worry about supplies since he's with us, so no worrying about survival skills; he can get more weapon training in than the other tributes. Everyone else, go learn something you don't already know."

"Don't tell me what to do," Amaris grumbles.

"Or don't. Do whatever. Just a suggestion."

She brightens right up. "No, I like it. Let's split up, gang."

Ash winces. "Don't say that once we're in the Arena; that's asking for trouble."

"Whatever." She stomps off toward the camouflage booth. I have no idea what a Career would need with camouflage, unless things go disastrously wrong, but that's her business.

Woohyun picks up a huge sword, almost drops it on his foot, and trades it for a lighter one. Ash shoots me a _what-the-fuck-is-any-of-this-even _look and wanders off to terrorize a few girls at the plant identification booth. Merona gives me one last glare and flounces off as well. Her victim of choice appears to be the tiny Nine girl.

"Hmm," Jaiven says, more to himself than me. "See, when I said 'learn something', what I meant was 'pick something, and learn it.' Guess that's not how it came across."

"It's not a bad strategy," I point out as we stroll aimlessly to the electronics booth. "Ruining training for everyone else, I mean."

"True."

The booth is empty except for the big Twelve boy, who's cursing softly to himself as he repeatedly burns himself with a soldering iron. He couldn't possibly be anything but a miner. I guess hands used to sledgehammers don't easily manipulate tiny circuit components. He glances up warily when we arrive, but when it becomes apparent that we're not going to bother him, he returns to what he's doing.

Jaiven flips through the project book. "Damn, this is pretty diverse."

"What's in there?"

"Stuff you'd expect—you know, bombs and so on—but then there's pumps, Geiger counters, toasters… Why the _hell _would you build a toaster in the middle of the Arena?"

"Well, maybe you've got a loaf of bread and some time to kill."

"I guess so. Want to learn to make a toaster?"

"Think I'll pass. What's the next booth?"

First aid, as it turns out. There are little booklets scattered all over the place, for everything from infection to radiation sickness. "What about this?" I ask.

"I did some training with first aid. Dunno how much more I can learn in three days. You?"

"I might come back to it, but let's take a look at everything first."

I like the easy camaraderie we've fallen into. Nothing flirtatious, but that's fine. I could use a friend. Of course I know it can't last, but I think his easygoing, peacekeeping nature is genuine. I can trust him for now.

The next booth is general disaster scenarios. Fire, floods, nuclear accidents, all of that.

Jaiven frowns. "What are the odds of a nuclear disaster in the Arena? Has that ever happened?"

"No, but between this, the radiation sickness first aid, and the Geiger counter we theoretically know how to build, we'll be prepared if it does."

His eyes narrow. "But if it's never happened before… _Has _it ever happened before?"

"Not as far as I know."

"And I've never heard this stuff mentioned as part of training. I thought I knew everything available here."

"Same. So it's new."

"So it's probably here for a reason," he concludes.

We consider that for a moment. "Oh, shit," we say in unison.

"Goddamn," he mutters. "That is _all_ kinds of not what I signed up for."

Now that he mentions it, same here. I hate burns. Hate, hate, hate them. I don't know much about radiation, but if the sun can fry my skin from a zillion miles away, I don't want to come face-to-face with anything along the same lines.

"Guess we better get the rest together and share the good news," he sighs.

"Guess so."

It's a bit contentious, particularly in Amaris's case, but we manage to herd the pack back over the the sword station. Woohyun has improved noticeably in the few minutes we've been gone, I note.

"Now what?" Merona yawns.

Jaiven glances at me to do the honors. Fine. "Did you guys notice a lot of stuff related to radioactivity, just sort of mixed in at the survival booths?"

For a second I think she'll make some kind of smart-ass comment, but she looks serious. "Now that you mention it? Yeah. Fallout ash at the camouflage station."

"The plant station had how to recognize contaminated plants," Ash says.

Merona sighs. "Oh, ew. They'd better fix my DNA after I win."

Amaris pats her shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure they would _if _you won, but you don't have to worry about that."

"Don't touch me."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Don't tell _me _what to do."

"Oh my God, shut up. Ugh."

"So!" Jaiven interrupts. "Any bright ideas? What do we do about it?"

"Kill everybody really fast?" Ash suggests.

"That's… not bad, actually. Anything else?"

I glance around for Capitol attendants before gesturing everyone in closer. "Okay, so my mentor got me the booklet with all the tribute bios."

Ash scowls. "Mine didn't. Don't they share? We're from the same damn District."

"I don't think so. They usually bet against each other."

"Oh, wow, nice."

"Anyway," Jaiven prompts.

"Yeah. Anyway," I go on. "The Five boy has been trained in nuclear science for at least five years. Works at a reactor. Specializes in major weapons. He knows more than any of us are going to learn in the next three days."

"Let's get him," Amaris declares.

Woohyun groans. "Do we have to?"

"What's wrong, Asian Ken, can't handle a little competition?"

"Don't _call _me that, princess!"

"I'll call you whatever the fuck I want. Maybe you should learn to fight and _then _complain. Bitch."

"Maybe I will."

I wave my hand between their faces to get their attention back. "Hey. So. Wonderful and brilliant though we are, we won't be the only ones to figure this out. Everyone's going to try to get him in their alliance. If we want him, we should get him now."

"She's right. So _do _we want him?" Jaiven asks.

Amaris snorts. "I think everyone wants him, darling. If you know what I mean."

"I… what?" Jaiven says weakly. "Okay. Yeah. So. Any objections to bringing him in? No? Cool."

He strides off in the direction of the archery station. The five of us troop after him. It occurs to me that maybe we should've let Jaiven go alone, because the poor boy will probably have a heart attack when he turns around to find the whole Career pack looming over him, but it's too late now.

Even though we've got to be pushing twelve hundred pounds of human between us, we manage to creep right up behind him thanks to our training. Woohyun is either naturally sneaky or not quite as inexperienced as he claims. We watch silently as the boy draws the bowstring back. His draw isn't the best, but still solid for someone as willowy as him. The arrow thuds into the target halfway between the bullseye and the edge.

"This your first time?" Jaiven asks.

The boy jumps and whirls around, clutching his chest theatrically. He's… really something. Something about his green eyes makes me imagine him getting high, attempting dark magic, and succeeding. His features are so nice it nearly puts him in the uncanny valley, that weird, unnerving category of things that are almost human but not quite.

"Can I help you?" he says slowly. Oh, perfect, he sounds like a phone sex line. Of course he does. I can tell he's deliberately making his voice throatier and lower than it really is, but he's damn good at it.

"I think so. You're the Nuke kid?"

Jaiven, I notice, has switched to a far harsher persona than he used with me. Some kind of deliberate strategy, or a defense mechanism against the pretty boy's prettiness, I wonder?

"I am indeed. My name is Ariel." He offers a hand.

Jaiven shakes it. It's the oddest image; I think Jaiven could shatter Ariel's bones if he tightened his grip. "I'm Jaiven. This is Amelia, Merona, Amaris, Ash, and Woohyun. Want to join our alliance?"

"Oh, that is tempting," Ariel murmurs innocently. "But I have to wonder what you want with me."

"I think you know."

Ariel blinks. "Oh, my. Do I?"

"I mean… I…" Jaiven takes a deep breath, rubbing his temples. "Look, we think you could help us navigate the Arena. In exchange, no one, ourselves included, will kill you until the final eight."

"You can promise that?"

Jaiven shrugs, gesturing at the four-and-a-bit Careers over his shoulder. "Of course not, but we can promise the best odds you're likely to get."

Ariel looks us over. Slowly and extensively. Within a few seconds, Ash is indignant, Amaris is smirking, Merona is scowling, and I don't know _what's _going through Woohyun's head, nor do I want to, judging by his leer. Soon enough I'm the one being checked out. I don't think I'm imagining that his eyes stay on me just a bit longer than the rest. But for all I know, it's because he's wondering what's wrong with my hips. Not to mention that, judging from the minute and a half I've known him, he's quite happy to use his looks as leverage and to fuck with people at every opportunity. Even if he _does _act interested in me, I make a mental note not to buy it for a second. No matter how much I might want to.

"I think you're right," Ariel decides. He licks his lips. It's totally unnecessary, but damn him, it gets my attention. He knows exactly what he's doing. "Yes, I'll join. So. Now what? Who's on top around here, anyway?"

"Okay, rule number one," Jaiven mutters. "Knock it off with the double entendres."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. What did I…? _Oh, _I get it, you thought I meant…" Ariel trails off with a laugh. "Gracious, your mind is filthy. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Jaiven and Ash exchange alarmed glances, like they're wondering if they just made a terrible mistake. I, for one, am quite entertained.

"Any more rules I should know about?" Ariel asks. "I admit I'm not usually one to do what I'm told, but for _you–"_

"Right," Jaiven declares, cutting him off. "I'll be at the swords. No, the… the plants. Bye."

He double-times it across the gym. Ash takes off after him.

Ariel doubles over laughing. "Sorry. Couldn't help it. Aren't macho guys adorable? I like ours already."

"They're gonna stab you if you keep that up," Amaris points out.

"Oh, they would never," he says airily. "Far too Freudian. They can't choke me, either. It might be sexy, and _then _what are they supposed to do? I guess they could use poison, but that's so… passive."

"What the fuck," Merona mutters, but I can't bite back a snicker. I like this guy.

**I regret nothing.**


	17. Training: Merona

**Merona Styx, District Two, 18**

I'm not sure what I expected to happen. This is not it.

Jaiven and Ash are beating each other up at the martial arts station. Still trying to recover from Ariel, I guess. Woohyun returned to the swords. Though some sequence of events I can't quite figure out, the creepy little devil boy managed to hustle Amaris and I away from the archery area, isolating Amelia there with him. In theory Amelia should still be decidedly in charge of the situation; she's at least as big as him and lethally trained. In practice… I guess we'll find out.

Whatever. Not my problem. As long as someone wrangles him well enough to maximize the useful information and minimize the creepiness, and that someone is not me, I really don't care.

The problem is that I'm left walking aimlessly across the gym with Amaris. She doesn't look happy about it either.

"We could split up," she suggests in the most civil tone I've heard from her all day.

"Yeah, we sure could."

"Hmm. I don't know, though."

I raise an eyebrow. "Come on, you had a good idea. Bask in the moment. Don't ruin it."

"Hear me out. Don't you think we should at least _try _to get along? Whether we like it or not, we're more dangerous between the two of us if we cooperate. And fuck you."

I consider that. "That makes sense, actually. Fuck you too."

She nods decisively. "Good. I mean, we might as well not dance around the fact that we'd totally stab each other in the face, right?"

"Right."

"But I don't like how buddy-buddy Jaiven and Amelia were getting there."

"Me either," I agree. "And now Jaiven and Ash are having Threatened Straight Boy Group Therapy over there, and who even knows what's going on at the archery station. Point is, we oughta stick together."

Amaris follows my gaze to the archery booth, where Amelia is correcting Ariel's grip on the bowstring. Somehow this necessitates him being pressed against her from head to toe. Amaris shakes her head in wonder. "Goddamn, he's _carnivorous."_

Amelia, to her credit, is visibly suspicious with the whole affair. Not angry, but definitely taking his antics with an ocean's worth of salt. Good. Hopefully she'll figure out how to deal with him so the rest of us don't have to.

But there's something even more interesting: we're not the only ones watching. The short-haired Five girl is doing some kind of yoga-y thing on the combat mat, ducking every so often to avoid flying limbs of the Career boys. She's looking past the archery station, but something tells me her attention is on it. There's the slightest bit of a frown on her face that could be anything from real anger to a touch of indigestion. Is she worried about a huge, powerful alliance forming? Pissed that she doesn't get the benefit of her District partner's knowledge? Or is she just jealous, like the rest of Panem?

Ariel doesn't do it for me personally—actually, _no _one does it for me—but apparently he does for everyone else. I'll have to take that into account. Hormones make people behave in weird ways, and apparently Ariel can manipulate them like a streetside firebreather plays with flame. I predict that bringing him into our alliance will be a disastrous decision overall, but a good one for me personally. He's destructive and chaotic and I'm immune. His presence gives me an advantage.

Amaris looks over my shoulder. "Huh."

"What?"

"Crazy kid's not crazy anymore."

"Which crazy kid? There are, like… a lot," I yawn, turning to see who she's talking about. "Oh, the _crazy _crazy one."

Nine boy, that is. But he does indeed seem to have calmed down. He's sitting peacefully at the trap and snare table, tinkering with a tangle of string.

I narrow my eyes. "Still don't like him. Let's get him at the Bloodbath."

"Yeah, not really feeling that sharing-an-arena-with-him thing either."

"That's settled then. Hey, you know what we oughta do?"

"What?"

"Learn at least _some _of that nuclear stuff. I don't want Slutty McEyelashes over there to be the only thing standing between me and radiation poisoning, you know? What are we supposed to do if someone stabs him at the Bloodbath or whatever? Plus I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

Amaris glances between me and Ariel. "I think you could throw him pretty far."

"Aw, thanks."

"Welcome. But yeah, good idea."

We jog over to the First Aid table. Someone's already there, the Ten girl. Amaris and I exchange glances and silently sit on either side of her.

Disappointingly, she doesn't react other than a raised eyebrow. "Hey," she says, winding a bandage around a fake wrist.

"Hi," I smile back at her, plucking it from her hands and yanking on the end of the bandage. The fake hand does a few barrel rolls and thuds onto the table.

The girl laughs, a real laugh from her belly. "I'm Lillen. Who're you?"

I scowl inwardly. Just steal all my thunder, why don't you. Fucking rude.

"Merona Styx," I say nicely, leaning way into her personal space. "I'm using this station now."

"You do whatever you want, sugar. Doesn't bother me."

"You're in the way, though," Amaris says from over Lillen's shoulder.

"Is that so? Well, I'm sure a pair of educated Careers can manage to work around big ol' me."

"We could," Amaris hisses. "But we don't _want _to. So move."

Finally Lillen stops looking so irritatingly cheerful, but now her expression is thoughtful. "You know," she says. "I'm no Career like you. But I'm eighteen, and I'm not gonna kill any little kids. I can't win, really."

Amaris groans. "Oh my God. No philosophizing. Just scram, would you?"

"Well, I'm getting there, sugar. That's the thing. I'm not spending my last few days on this green earth kowtowing to the likes of you. So I guess what I'm saying is–" She stands up. She's at least six feet tall, muscular, and the look on her face leaves no doubt that she's well and truly sick of us. "–No."

I burst out laughing. Amaris grabs Lillen around the neck, kicks her knees out from under her, and throws her down on her face. Lillen's size is all well and good, but it's not much against a decade of training.

Lillen clambers to her feet calmly. Of course, ten Capitol attendants rush over before Amaris and I can hit her again. They don't say anything, but the message is clear: no more fighting. Whatever. We've made our point. We walk away laughing and don't look back.

I just love being lethal. Morality is for people who need it to protect them from their betters. They can prattle on and on about doing unto others and all that, write laws until they're blue in the face, but when all is said and done I can kick the door in and break their neck and there's not a thing they can do about it. There's only one real source of power, and I have it.

"You know what?" I say. "Forget survival skills. Let's do knives."

"Works for me."

I think Amaris is thinking along the same lines as me, exhilarated by the realization of how much stronger we are than the other tributes, but riding that train of thought to its logical conclusion: there are five very, very dangerous Careers, and only one can survive. Learning each other's strengths and weaknesses is the most important goal of training.

Amaris goes straight for a pair of slim daggers and proceeds to terrorize the attendant with them. She's better than I'd be, but I also get the sense that they're one of her favorite weapons. I'm a jack of all trades myself. From a mace to my bare hands, you name it, I'll kill someone with it.

I glance over to see what the boys are doing. Ash is abusing a punching bag and Jaiven has wandered off to the archery station with Amelia and Ariel, which I don't like at all. The Five girl is still on the mat, but she's watching a group of girls at the disaster station now, and I get the feeling she's memorizing everything.

Which I should be doing as well, actually. I squint at the three girls, trying to remember their names and Districts. Felicity from Twelve, Castalia from Nine, and Desdemona from Eight, I think. The young tributes. All four in that middle category of people I'm not particularly worried about but wouldn't turn my back on, either.

I choose a knife of my own, a single straight-edged dagger. My fingers curl around the new leather handle comfortably. It's so familiar. I wonder what it'll feel like to kill someone. We practice stabbing pigs to get used to the shock of how flesh feels when you drive a knife into it, but it's not the _same. _There's no rush.

The practice blades are blunted and and the Capitol dude is wearing protective gear, but I can tell it still hurts when I drive the knife into his gut as hard as I can. And he's supposed to be one of the best knife fighters the Capitol has? He's pathetic. I guess it's hard to take your training seriously when you know there's no chance you'll ever need it. It does strike me as a bad political decision, though, incentivizing the people you're trying to control to make themselves as deadly as possible.

Except they don't really have to control District Two, I guess. We're happy. There are the obligatory few bleeding-hearts whining about how mistreated the outer Districts are, but no one listens to them, and they usually disappear. Good riddance.

The Six girl stomps over to our station. She picks up a knife at random, sticks out her jaw belligerently, and stabs a dummy in the chest. Does she not know ribs are a thing?

She pulls the knife out and takes a step back, studying the mannequin. She brushes her finger over what I recognize as the major veins and arteries, thinks for a moment, and rams the knife in again. Nowhere near any of the blood vessels she obviously knows about. So why…?

She smirks and stabs the dummy again, then again, both of the wounds deliberately nonlethal.

Ohhhh, I get it. She's part of the Crazy Bastard Club.

"You really think that'll help?" I say from over her shoulder.

She jumps and spins to face me. "Yeah, actually." Her expression is openly hostile, feline brown eyes narrowed. She's almost as big as the Ten girl. "Everyone knows something useful."

"What's your name again?"

"None of your business."

I roll my eyes. "Answer the damn question before I do to you what you did to that dummy."

"You can't kill me. We're in training."

"I can give you a rain check."

She huffs. "Whatever. I'm Reyna."

"What're you so mad about?"

"You're a criminal," she spits.

I blink. "You think so?" Funny thing is, I actually _haven't _killed anyone. Yet. As much as I might've been tempted sometimes.

"You trained. You're not allowed to train."

I shrug. "Yeah, see, I think that's one of those rules that's more like a guideline, you know?"

"It's not a guideline, it's a _law," _she lectures, teeth gritted and eyes wide.

"Wow," I say, a bit nonplussed. "This is really important to you, huh?"

"Of course it's important! It's the _most _important thing!"

"Okay," I say slowly. "Well. You keep your knives to yourself until we kill you, yeah?"

"Uh… no?"

I smile and pat her shoulder. "Whatever, you crazy bitch. Enjoy your stabbing."

I walk away as she splutters. Amaris is cheerfully decimating a whole gang of attendants in the far corner of the station. I gesture a few over to me. How many will it take, I wonder, to keep me from getting bored?

Honestly. This is such a waste of time. The Games can't start soon enough.


	18. Training: Ted

**It's short, sorry, but at least it exists, right? Right.**

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

It's not as bad as it could be. Which isn't saying a lot, given that this is, after all, the Hunger Games. But I'll take what I can get.

I'm happy with my choice of Jukai as an ally. He's easy to get along with, seems honest, and is more useful than I think he realizes. He knows his way around the woods. He can climb like a spooked monkey and he turns out to have a knack for archery. I make a point of holding him at a safe psychological distance, but he's growing on me.

He's a bit of a dipshit. He's a year older than me, but it doesn't feel that way. Well, whatever. Thankfully he's not one of those unfortunate people who are wrong _and _stubborn, so we'll be just fine.

"So," he says as we walk into the gym for day two of training. "You gonna run all day again?"

That's my strategy: get in shape as much as I can in three days, then run like hell once I'm in the Arena. Jukai agrees that it's a good one. At first I tried to get him to run with me, but after the first few miles didn't even leave him winded, I realized him keeping up with me won't be a problem.

"Probably an hour now, an hour later," I reply. "What about you?"

"Guess I should try to figure out some kind of weapon," he says unhappily. "Kinda rather not, but, y'know. Hunger Games."

"Yeah. Sword, maybe? Looks like most of the Careers left." The sword station is indeed deserted except the Four dude, who I'm pretty sure Jukai can handle.

"Sure, why not?"

He strolls off to the swords. I do my running. As usual, I'm the only one at the station. Nice thing is, the treadmills look out over the rest of the gym, so I can see what everyone else is doing. Aside from Jukai and I, I see three alliances forming. There's the Careers, plus their growing crew of male models. I sort of get how the Four guy got in, but why Five? I make a mental note that something weird is going on there. There's a group I mentally dub the Youngbloods: the Eight, Nine, and Twelve girls, three of the four youngest tributes. As I watch, they troop off after the Eleven boy to complete their quartet.

The last alliance is the most worrying, simply because I don't know what to make of it. The pale, skinny Five girl finally does something other than stretch and stare at people. All at once, she rises to her feet like a rope is dragging her up, lopes over to the plant station, and taps the auburn-haired Seven girl on the shoulder. Jukai told me her name. Kaya, that's it.

Kaya looks uncertain at first, but they talk for a while and she starts nodding. She points at the Three girl. Now it's the Five girl's turn to hesitate, but she seems to agree eventually and they go over to talk to the Threes. I can't hear what's going on, but there seems to be some controversy about the Three boy. At last they split up again. I can't tell whether they reached a consensus or not.

Finally I'm done running. I should try to learn a weapon, too, but now I'm exhausted. Maybe I'll try something I'm actually good at, just to give my ego a bump.

There's a weird little station for figuring out and memorizing maps. The attendant will give you a few routes or pictures or whatever, and you piece together as much as you can about the place. It's always been a talent of mine, visualizing things and fitting them together, and I'm proven right at the booth. Almost disappointingly so, actually; I get through everything they've got in half an hour and it's probably a waste of time.

But my legs aren't shaking anymore, so that's good. Weapon time. I'm not sure what I should try; the closest I've come to wielding a weapon is cutting up my dinner with a steak knife, or maybe the power tools at work. But in both cases the idea is to _not _kill anyone, so it's not much to go on.

So what should I learn? I'm pretty strong, I guess. Not remarkably agile or anything like that. And there are almost always swords in the Arena, plus Jukai's still over there, so… sure, why not?

I take a second to see how he's doing before jumping in myself. He's not bad. It's apparent that even from the few hours of practice, he's developed a feel for the blade. But his movements are still the mechanical, deliberate ones of someone to whom this doesn't come naturally. All of his athleticism is in his lower body, I think, plus he's just not a vicious person. There's no intent to harm in the way he swings the sword and I'm not confident there will be when this is real.

We nod at each other and he continues slashing at a dummy. I look around for an attendant. One pops up immediately and soon I'm slicing up a mannequin of my own under her guidance, trying not to think about how the point of all this is killing a real, live person. I'll do it if I have to. But I don't _want _to. Honestly, I just want to go home and do my damn job and live in a world where this kind of crazy bullshit doesn't happen. But here I am, swinging an ancient, obsolete weapon in a room full of teenagers who are almost all dead people walking, for the sake of… order? Unity?

But that's the dumbest PR move I've ever heard. _Gee, how should we keep these people quiet? I know, let's drag off and horribly kill some of their children every year, and make it as big a spectacle as we possibly can! Perfect! Surely this will stave off any resentment of our leadership._

It's stupid. _Too _stupid, I muse as I slash the dummy's arm off. It's Peacekeepers that keep the Districts under control, not the Games. Which means the Games are for the Capitol. Keeping them entertained, and maybe a little bit scared of their government. They know damn well that they're antagonizing the Districts, but they don't care, because there's nothing we can do about it.

Which means ending the Games wouldn't take a full-scale revolution. Just a shift in the power balance, so that we become a bigger threat than the Capitol citizens.

Now, if only I had the slightest clue how that might happen, and the ability to do something about it, and the personality as well, because honestly, I don't lead revolutions. I install doors onto cars. Armed revolt? Not my division. Besides, I've got a family; I don't like to think about what would happen to them if I tried anything. Peacekeepers kicking down the door of my house, grabbing my sister–

"Perfect," the attendant grins, and I realize I almost stabbed the dummy clean through the chest.

There's something I'm not sure the Capitol realizes. As it keeps sucking the Districts dry, the poor are getting poorer, more hopeless and desperate. Soon they'll have nothing to lose. I won't act, because they can hurt me. But the people with no family, no past, no future… I think the Capitol should be very scared of them.

**HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KILL THESE GUYS AAAAAAAHHHHH MY HEART. (Well, okay, some will be fun to kill. But some are going to make me cry. Fun fact: I've already come up with a few possible endings, and one of them made me cry actual tears in the middle of my physics exam. Which still went remarkably well, actually, considering that I didn't know there was one. Anyway.)**

**Five-eights of the way there! Yay? Fair warning, they'll probably all be about this length, because I'm getting bored. :P**


	19. Training: Kaya

**Aaaand I lied, this one's long. Whatever. We'll get there when we get there. :P**

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

I think I'm in the majority here in two significant ways: I really, really don't want to be here, but now that I am, I have no intention of dying. Of course I don't want to hurt anyone. But twenty-three people are going to die no matter what I do, and I don't see why I have to be one of them.

I know I'm not a favorite, but I also know my chances are much better than zero. I can run. I can climb. I can survive in the woods. I can do whatever it takes, within reason.

I bank on the Arena being either something indoors or woods I'll be able to feed myself in. I've noticed during the _Games Over the Years_ specials the Capitol loves to run that the Arenas have been getting easier—fewer tributes starving to death, dying of exposure, that kind of thing. Boring, I guess. So odds are the survival skills I already have will be more than enough.

I spend most of the first day throwing axes at things. I'm giving away one of my strengths, but it's not like a District Seven tribute coming at someone with an axe is going to take anyone by surprise. Hell, it's probably more of a shock that Jukai _can't _use one, as he confessed on the train. He worked with the drag ropes back home, and as a result is probably the one person who could catch me in a tree. I don't _think _he'd kill me, or at least not unless we were the final two, but who knows? He's a nice guy, but this is the Hunger Games.

The other tributes leave me alone and I make no move to talk to any of them. It's not that I mind people. Just that making new friends isn't exactly a specialty of mine, and I'm perfectly content with my own company. I've almost got a Zen thing going on. Anyway, what am I supposed to do, chat in between throws? _Hi, how are you? _Thud. _Great to meet you. _Crack. Harder than I can usually throw. I'm angry, I guess, at this whole stupid thing. I don't deserve to die and neither do most of the other people here.

A few hours into the second day I decide to stop at the plant identification booth after all, half to see if there's anything worth learning and half to see whether they've actually gotten it right. They have. Damn. I'm not usually the type to revel in schadenfreude, but I wouldn't mind seeing the Capitol mess something up.

Someone taps my shoulder. I turn to find the District Five girl's hooded gray-blue eyes regarding me. She's about my height, on the tall side, but unnervingly skinny. Actually, she's just unnerving in general. There's something old about her. Not just that she looks like she's in her twenties, although that's true too; more like she stepped here from an era when pictures were still black and white and people with tuberculosis were sent away to die in huge Gothic buildings.

She smiles without opening her mouth. It doesn't make me feel better.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft and low-pitched.

"Er… hello."

"I'm Luther Constantine. District Five."

"Kaya Redfell, Seven."

"Do you mind if I join you here?"

"Go ahead," I say, of course, hoping my true feelings on the matter aren't showing on my face.

She glides onto the stool next to me. Her style of movement reminds me of a spider. Is there _anything _cheerful and non-creepy about this girl?

"I really am sorry if I'm bothering you," she says after a moment. "To be honest, I'm probably one of the most introverted people out there. It's better to just tell me outright if I'm doing something wrong, because I won't pick up on it otherwise."

"I understand," I shrug. "I'm pretty quiet too at first."

She smiles again. "I noticed that. It's why I thought I'd come talk to you. Counterintuitive, I realize, but… well, you seemed like you might not give me a headache."

I'm not sure if she means it literally. I think she might. Now that I'm looking, there are shadows under her eyes, and she looks exhausted and a little sick, like all the light and noise really is bothering her.

I smile back at her. It's small, but not forced. "I'll do my best. Do you know any of these plants?"

"Not a bit. Five is mostly cities, and then there was… No, I'm not good with survival skills at all."

"I can probably show you."

"Could you? I could memorize the book, but theory and practice rarely align so nicely. I might be able to teach you some tricks in return."

My interest is piqued despite myself. "What tricks? And could you really memorize the book?"

"Blind memorization happens to be a skill of mine," she says drily. "I never expected it to be so practical, though it does serve me well in academics."

I sigh. "Must be nice."

"Not the scholarly type?"

"Not really." I could go on, but spilling my life story and strengths and weaknesses two minutes into a conversation isn't really my style.

"Hmm. We might… complement each other, then. I promise I'm not calling you stupid, just that your practical knowledge seems far greater than mine, but I'm sure my skills can be applied somewhere."

"What, you mean you want to ally?"

She glances up from the plant book to look me in the eye. "I think we should at least consider it," she shrugs.

I have to make myself consider it rationally instead of giving in to the instinct telling me to scream _Look! A distraction! _and run away while her back is turned. Between the heavy eyelids, bruise-like shadows underneath, and how her pupils contract in the light, her eyes are just so _creepy._

But she seems perfectly nice. Definitely intelligent. Almost self-deprecating, like on some level she knows she freaks people out and is trying to get past that. And she seems so underfed, her short hair choppy like it was cut with a knife, even her lips so pale they're almost white. The part of me that doesn't want to run away wants to make her a mug of hot chocolate and wrap her in a blanket.

"… Um," I say. "Well… sorry for how cold this sounds, but I've got to ask. What skills of yours do you think you could apply? And you never said what tricks you could teach me."

She tilts her head, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. I'm quite good with anything mechanical. I can build traps or defuse them. My memory is good, so I can always tell you who's left, where they're from, how they prefer to fight, what alliance they were with last, and so on. If nothing else, I can make sure no one kills you in your sleep. And I don't eat much," she finishes with a half-smile.

"Can you fight?"

Luther looks down at her skinny wrists ruefully. "I can certainly try, but… I don't know, can you?"

"I'm no match for the Careers, but I could hold my own against most of the rest, I think. At least if I had an axe to throw."

She nods. "I see. I wish I could pull my weight physically, but… Ah well. As I said, there are other assets I can offer. Some of my best are hard to describe, though."

"Huh?"

"For example, the Arena is going to be radioactive. And either the starting area is _extremely _radioactive, or there's some other serious, immediate hazard there."

I blink. "How in hell…?"

"There's something about nuclear science at almost every station. Just subtle enough that some of us are guaranteed to notice, but not all. And I'm not the only one who thinks so; the Careers do too."

"How do you know _that?"_

"They looked at the stations, conferenced, and went straight for Ariel. My District partner, that is. He worked at a reactor."

I can't help noticing that she talks about her own life in present tense, but his in past. Like he's already dead. And that she glances at him as she says his name, right as he happens to be looking back. His eyes widen and I can tell from across the room that his heart skips a beat. He skitters out of sight behind the One girl.

Huh.

"As to the starting area," Luther goes on, "I'm inferring that from the lack of mines. Whoever doesn't get out of there fast is dead. And I mean _fast. _Usually they wouldn't tell us about something like that until right before we went in. Chaos and confusion, right? But because we know, everyone will be ready, the alliances will have decided on a course of action… We'd _all _be dead if they didn't tell us to scram, which they don't want."

"Oh."

Once again, logic and instinct are telling me opposite things. Clearly, Luther is useful. I would never have thought of that, but now that she says it, I think she's right. I should ally with her. But my gut says that I lost control of this situation as soon as she sat down next to me.

But I'm physically stronger. For all her wits, I can just chuck an axe at her; hell, I could probably choke her out without too much trouble. If nothing else, it makes no sense for Luther to turn on me early. I can see how she conducts herself in the Arena. If she's still creeping me out, I'll just kill her while I've got her right next to me.

It sounds so easy in my head.

"No, I uh… I mean, I think you're right. And you seem pretty… formidable, whether you can fight or not."

She gives me that close-lipped smile again. "Thank you."

"But if we ally, I think we should have at least one more person who can use a weapon, for in case we run into the Ten guy or something. I figure we're screwed against the Careers no matter what, but with one more person I could take anyone else."

Luther frowns. "Hmm. Who were you thinking?"

"I… don't know. Who _would _ally with us? The Twelve boy is big, but…"

She shakes her head. "He's too strong. He can already handle anyone but the Careers, plus he's got a target on his back. Bringing him in would put our whole alliance on the Career radar. We need someone strong, but less obvious."

I point at the Three girl. "Her?"

"She's not very big."

"She's got muscle, though, and I saw her with a knife earlier. She knows how to fight."

"She's with the boy. Four is too many."

"Maybe we can convince her to come with us."

Luther shrugs. "If you like."

We go to the first aid station, where the Three girl is staring at a pile of medical supplies like it's something simultaneously offensive and inexplicable, her eyes narrowed. The boy is trying to demonstrate how to splint an arm.

"How do you know that?" the girl grumbles.

"My neighbor was kinda the nurse of the building, I dunno. Broke my arm a lot. Ended up helping her out some, and she taught me–"

She lets her breath out in a hiss. "You fucking Boy Scout. Was this before or after you helped old ladies cross the street?"

"After, actually," he sniffs. "She made her grocery run at ten sharp."

The girl's forehead thuds against the table. "You have got to be kidding me," she groans.

"Um… hey," I break in. Why am _I _making the introduction? I barely wanted allies at all.

The Three girl looks up, giving me what I'm starting to realize is her trademark flat look. The boy leans around her shoulder to regard me. How am I supposed to ask her with him right there? But Luther's right, four is too many, plus I sort of like the idea of an all-girls alliance.

"Hey," she says.

"I'm Kaya. This is Luther."

"Viss. This is Luka." Viss's expression doesn't change as she introduces herself, but Luka gives me a huge grin. I already feel bad for excluding him. It's like locking a puppy outside.

"We were wondering if you were looking for an alliance."

"Me or us?" she says.

"Well, um… I meant just you."

Luka hangs his head, then looks up at Viss in alarm, like it's occurred to him that she might accept. She doesn't even look at him, keeping her eyes on mine instead. "We're a package deal."

"Oh." I glance at Luther, who gives me a _don't ask me _shrug. Isn't knowing everything supposed to be her thing? But the fact that she had to convince me to ally makes me the unofficial leader of our two-woman band, I guess. She'll advise me, and her advice is 'no', but she's letting me decide.

Will four people really bring the Careers down on us? And who says there'll even _be _four after the Bloodbath, if it's as awful as Luther predicts?

"Both of you is fine," I say. "But in that case, we shouldn't train together or we'll get the Careers' attention. How about we just say automatic truce if we run into each other in the Arena before the final twelve, and we'll figure something out then?"

Viss nods. "That works."

I glance at Luther. She nods, looking genuinely satisfied with the arrangement.

"Okay," I say. "Well… see you later, then? Hopefully."

Viss nods. "Hopefully."

I guess Luka doesn't get a say in this? Actually, I don't think he's spoken since I got Viss's attention, but he seems content enough with the negotiations.

I should've asked them more questions, in retrospect, but it's too late. Does Viss do anything other than shank people? Does Luka do anything other than first aid? Does she ever smile? Does he ever talk to anyone but her? I guess I'll find out.

Hopefully.

**Huh, I guess the length depends mostly on how much tribute interaction there is, since that's what I tend to have the most ideas for. Feel free to let me know if I seem to have forgotten about your tribute. I'm trying to have all of them pop up now and then, but a few are bound to get left out. I think Atlas and Carmen are the only ones I haven't at least mentioned in training, but correct me if I'm wrong.**

**Coming up are Fenris and Elfor's training chapters, then Interviews for the last six, then I start killing people. :D**


	20. Training: Fenris

**Okay, I have no clue what to do with this barrel of sunshine, so… we'll see how this goes.**

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

The Capitol people keep following me. Every time I get too close to another tribute, they creep forward. I want to attack them. So many, though. I know they'll just keep coming and coming, like ants out of a broken hill, and I'll be outnumbered even though I could easily kill any five of them.

I can't kill the other tributes yet. I know. I understand that killing is for the Arena. But they're afraid I don't understand. They can tell I'd rather just kill _now _because this room feels so dangerous, everyone in it creeping and plotting and planning and it goes against all my instincts not to creep up on them one by one and snap their necks.

I only half-understand what's going on. First I was alone in the woods, doing what I needed to in order to survive. Then they found me and it was go here, do this, don't eat that, Fenris _put that baby down _but _we just want to help, you need to be integrated into society _and I was so, so restless and frustrated, squinting at books at school, tensing under the glares and occasional daring pinch of the other kids until finally one of them made me too angry and I jumped on him and starting ripping at him and that was when they decided maybe I didn't need to go to school after all, maybe the stockyards were a better place. Maybe I'd be better off with the other animals.

But there's always been that cardinal rule: don't kill anyone. Preferably don't kill any_thing, _but a sheep now and then if I get hungry is forgivable. People, I was told in no uncertain terms, are not. If I kill a person, they'll kill me.

But then my name was picked, and now I'm _supposed _to kill people? I think that's what's going on here. Sometimes people talk too fast and I get lost, but I'm pretty sure that's what Mrs. Carter said the Games are. Your name is drawn. You go with Them. They take you somewhere for a while, then They put you in the Arena, and then you do your best to survive. That's the only rule. Killing people is allowed.

But aside from the frustration and how tense it makes me to be in a room with people who want to kill me, I like training. These skills are actually useful. What plants I can eat. How to use weapons. I like them all, but I think my favorite is a huge, spiked mace. It feels light in my hands, but when it hits a dummy, there's not much left.

The other tributes notice, one by one. The big kids—Careers, I hear them called—are watching me from the beginning, and I'm watching them back. They're threats, big ones. Powerful. The boy with his hair tied in a bun with a shoelace has me marked as a threat as well. I don't worry about him until I see him talking with a tall blond boy. They're both weaker than me, but together they might stand a chance. A boy with red and blue hair—did he fall in a berry patch?—looks scared. The girl next to him just stares.

The little kids don't bother me. There's a dark-haired boy—District Twelve, I think?—who's about my size, but he doesn't know how to fight or hunt. A skinny, short-haired girl I instinctively don't like sizes me up briefly. The willowy boy from her District isn't a threat, but why does he keep looking at me? And swallowing hard, and… shivering? He must be scared.

Good. I catch his eye and swing the mace with all my strength. The whole gym goes dead silent as the roar that goes along with the effort echoes off the cement walls. The dummy is a sad pile of shredded rubber. The boy sucks in a breath and sits down hard on a bench at his station. He must be _really _scared.

Even better.

I want to do something to practice stealth, but the person on the train who told me what to do said I need to stick to strength stuff, since that won't give anything away. They all know I'm strong. No one expects me to be sneaky. I didn't like that woman, but once she explained it a few times it made sense. They won't be on the lookout for me sneaking up on them if they don't think I can. So, I shouldn't let them know I can. I understand.

I go to the sword station, where Lillen is. They'll let me be near Lillen. I guess they think if I haven't killed her yet, I probably won't. They're right. Lillen is better than the rest of them. I'll kill her if I have to, but not until then. I understand her when she talks to me. She's strong and I know she was useful back home. She should survive, if I don't.

"Hey," she smiles.

I grunt back at her.

The person running the booth grins at me uncertainly. "What kind of sword do you want to try?"

I don't know. I frown and look at Lillen to see if she knows.

"Just give him the biggest, heaviest one you've got," she says. "He'll have a great time."

The attendant nods, vanishes into a little hallway behind the booth, and returns staggering under the weight of a blade that's got to be as long as some of the shorter tributes are tall. It's satisfyingly heavy, too; I think I could cut someone in half with this. I want to try.

Lillen gestures at a dummy invitingly. "C'mon, wolfboy, let's see it."

I wave the sword around a little to get a feel for it—the Capitol person goes pale and ducks under the counter, and even Lillen takes a step back when I almost whack one of her orange braids off—but soon the weight feels comfortable in my hand. I charge at the dummy with another yell.

_Thud. _The top half hits the floor.

_Thud. _Smaller that time. I turn, frowning, to find that the slim boy from before has fallen on the ground. Maybe he's sick or something. I'll stay away until I'm sure. He's not worth getting sick to kill. The Careers don't seem worried about catching it, though, they're just standing there scowling and muttering to each other. Well, except the other skinny, dark-haired boy, who's kicking the one on the ground lightly, and the blond girl, who's giving him a dirty look.

What weird people.

This is fun, though. I like this. I kill another dummy. And then another one, stabbing it through the heart and cutting its head off before slicing it in half this time. Then the rest of the dummies. I almost kill Lillen by accident, but she sees it coming and ducks as the blade whooshes over her head.

Everyone should be like that. Knowing strength when they see it. What they're capable of fighting, and how to get away if they can't. I shouldn't have to tiptoe, be careful, remember how easily skin tears and bones break. I should be able to do what I want and people should get out of my way because it's so much _simpler _that way. It's natural.

But through that sequence and system of events I still don't clearly understand, I'm going somewhere where natural law reigns. No morals, no civilization, no rules. The strongest survives. I'm the strongest.

**Yes, Fenris's epic macho primal rage-strength made Ariel faint, or at least pretend to. For just in case anyone missed that. No, Fenris/Ariel is not gonna happen. Sorry, those of you who wanted to see that. You're very welcome, those of you who didn't, because dammit I thought about it. In great detail. Heheheh.**

**Ahem.**

**One more Training chapter. Hoooly shit. The end is in sight. This is one-acts tech week and track conditioning, though, so don't be surprised if there are no updates for a while. And again, thank you for the reviews! Getting reviews at all is super cool but you guys write amazingly detailed ones and it makes my day.**


	21. Training: Elfor

**This is another one of those chapters that took forever and never quite came together how I wanted, but I figured it was better to just keep moving and figure it out later.**

**Elfor Evain, District Eleven, 14**

I know on some level that making friends is just setting myself up for something awful. But this is going to be awful no matter what I do. So I might as well spend my last few days with a group of people who seem nice rather than running headlong through who-knows-what alone until something kills me, right?

The three girls seem taken aback by how quickly I accept their offer of an alliance. I don't bother sizing them up as fighters or survivalists because honestly, I don't care. They're breathing and that's good enough.

Des, who seems to be the spokeswoman, nods. "So now what? We've mostly been doing survival stuff. What have you been up to?"

"Errr…"

Wandering around trying not to bump into the Careers, mostly, but I don't think that's a good answer. Neither of the other girls strike me as likely to speak. Castalia, the Nine girl, is staring at me appraisingly, and Felicity's attention is squarely on the floor.

"Taking a look at everything, but I haven't really dug into anything," I finally say. Good enough. I'm not usually so awkward. Actually, I'm usually the one making all of the noise, but this whole situation is so crazy I have no idea what to do or say.

Des nods. "Okay. So we should probably try some weapons then, right?"

The girls exchange glances that apparently amount to a consensus in whatever hivemind they've formed, because they turn almost in sync and head in the direction of the archery station. Okay. That's borderline creepy, but sure.

"So where are you from?" Des asks as she wrestles a string onto a bow. "I mean, I know you're from Eleven, but… you know what I mean."

"I'm from Station City."

Felicity tilts her head, giving me that serious look that I'm starting to realize is her default expression. "What's that?"

"Rail hub. Everything gets shipped there to go to the Capitol."

"So you don't work on a farm?" Des cuts back in.

"Nope. Never been on a farm in my life."

"Where do you work, then?"

"Well, I, uh… I don't. I just go to school and do swim team."

Felicity and Castalia exchange glances. Des scrunches up her eyebrows. "They have swim team in District Eleven?"

"They do in Station City," I shrug. "I dunno, it's… kinda a lot nicer than the rest of Eleven."

"Oh."

"What about you guys?" I ask, more to change the subject than anything else, although I wouldn't mind knowing more about them. There's clearly already a group dynamic in place that I'm not part of and it's stressing me out. I hate feeling like that person on the edge of the group, always watching their step because their position in it is so shaky. It's not a situation I find myself in often, but here I am.

"I don't work either," Des says. "My mom and sister are engineers."

"My parents have a grocery store," Felicity adds solemnly, tying back her dark blond hair. "I have two little sisters and a brother."

I turn to Castalia. She opens her mouth and closes it again. "Well…"

Des and Felicity, I notice, are paying close attention, like she hasn't told them where she's from either.

"My dad works in the wheat fields. I have four siblings," she finally says, in that careful tone that means it's technically the truth, but she's twisting her words or leaving out something important.

_Thud. _

Des interrupts with a victory whoop. We turn to see the arrow buried in the target, not quite in the bulls-eye, but close to it.

My jaw drops. "Was that your first shot?"

"Yep," she grins. She draws back another arrow and lets it go, but it hits farther from the center.

Castalia elbows her. "Beginner's luck."

"Wanna bet?" Des sniffs. Her third shot is a bulls-eye.

Jeez. Well, this can't be that hard then, right? I pick a bow of my own. An attendant hurriedly runs me through how to hold the bow and the arrow, then situates me just behind a yellow line on the ground facing the targets.

The first thing I notice is that drawing the bow takes more strength than I expected. I can do it, but it takes some effort, and I'm impressed that Des got so much force behind her shot. She's visibly stocky, but now I know it's muscle.

I let my arrow go. It misses the target entirely.

"Aw, man," I sigh.

"Not a bad first shot," the attendant assures me. At first I think he's just saying it to make me feel better, but I realize he's right when I look over to see Felicity and Castalia struggling with their bows. Felicity can draw hers, but it makes her arm shake so much that there's no way she's hitting anything with it. Castalia can't even draw hard enough to send the arrow more than three-quarters of the way to the target.

Man, how screwed are we?

I can't help thinking that even though there are four of us, we're still basically helpless. Am I supposed to be the muscle here? What am I supposed to do against the Careers, or the Twelve guy, or the wolfman from Ten? I'm decently strong for my age, sure, but we're not fighting in age brackets here. Any of them could snap me in half.

"Archery was invented during the Paleolithic era," Felicity comments, more to herself than to us, still staring at the target.

Des blinks. "When was the Paleolithic, again?"

"Probably during the Upper Paleolithic, to be exact. Between fifty and ten thousand years ago. Roughly. They largely replaced spears as a projectile weapon, and remained in favor until the widespread use of firearms, which in turn were replaced by laser, nuclear, and blast weapons."

"Oh," I say.

Des looks over my shoulder distractedly. "Mm."

I turn to see what she's looking at. Her District partner, a biggish, scowly, dark-haired guy, is crossing the gym, and I get the feeling he was looking at us a second ago.

"I wanted him to join," she says, answering my unspoken question. "He said no."

"How come?"

"He didn't really give a reason. Maybe he just thought his chances were better alone."

Over Des's shoulder, the guy looks up again, and something tells me that's not the reason. He looks sad. Like he sees a bunch of dead bodies when he looks at us and just doesn't want to get any closer than he has to. Fair enough.

**Done with training. Hallelujah. Six to go.**


	22. Interviews: Ash

**Fuck, I just remembered how much I hate writing interviews. Sigh.**

**Ashler Lytton, District One, 17**

The training scores come in and I'm happy enough. Straight tens for the trained Careers. Woohyun manages an eight, Ariel a seven. It's mostly what I'd expect for everyone else—those big guys from the outer Districts score high, the athletic Six, Seven, and Eleven girls a bit lower. The only surprises are the thirteen-year-old from Eight, who gets a seven, and the District Threes, where the boy gets an eight and the girl a nine.

I don't bother committing the scores to memory. It's all subjective, and anyway, I know half the tributes outside our pack will deliberately score low just to keep us from coming after them. I don't get that thought process. Do they think we'll see them and be like, oh, that guy only got a four, forget about him? People are dumb.

But I guess I can't blame them for being intimidated. The Careers are strong this year. Hell, even I'm a little scared of us. Forget the other tributes; how the hell am I supposed to get rid of my allies, especially when my strategic position among them isn't exactly stellar?

Somehow, Jaiven became the leader of the Career pack. What's even weirder is that it doesn't bother me. I came into this determined to establish myself as the unquestioned Grand Poobah, and I think Amaris had the same idea, but Jaiven sort of slipped past both of us and quietly took charge.

I can't get mad at him because I really don't think he did it on purpose; it just sort of happened. And whether I like it or not, I can't help thinking that maybe it's better this way. No constant fighting between Amaris and I, anyway, and he really is good at getting us to work together, operating on consensus rather than trying to intimidate us. Anyway, the Gamemakers love assassinating the Career leader just to shake things up. I don't mind letting him take that metaphorical bullet. Or real one, if it's a gun year.

What _does _bother me is that there are sub-alliances forming and I'm getting left out. Amaris and Merona have morphed into an irritable, two-headed, insult-spitting menace. Jaiven and Amelia seem to be close friends already. Ariel follows Amelia around like a particularly unsettling puppy. Best of luck to her with that. As I watch, Jaiven sits down next to Woohyun and starts talking to him, which leaves no one for me to claim as a sidekick.

I scowl and lean back in my chair, glancing around the little holding room they've stuffed us in before we go out for the interviews. Most of the other tributes seem to share my mood. I try to guess what they're thinking. The Six boy, whose red beard is starting to grow back, looks far less confident than usual. Stage fright, I bet. The little Three guy seems to share his dismay, but the Three girl says something to him and he looks happier. I can tell at a glance that they're a thing. How tragic.

I check out the outer Districts to see how it's going in Crazy Motherfucker Corner. The white-blond Nine boy is staring at the wall with a vacant, wide-eyed smile, and I get the feeling he's practicing arranging his face that way. The District Ten wolfman is glowering at everyone from a corner, teeth slightly bared, like he really wants to start ripping throats out. The Six girl is as grumpy as ever. Then, of course, there's everyone's favorite nuclear whore, who's at least stopped with the dirty jokes for now in favor of taking a nap on Amelia's lap. Her expression is less _oh how cute _and more _this is not a battle worth fighting; just leave him there, it's fine._

Finally the ear-piercingly high-pitched woman of the day comes careening into the room to fetch us. There's a collective don't-waste-my-time-like-that glower from the Careers and an oh-shit-can-we-have-five-more-minutes from everyone else.

We file out into the huge auditorium thingy and even I have to concentrate on not letting my jaw drop. We have nice things in District One, but this is ridiculous. Everything is luxuriously wide-open and beautifully ornate. I'm in the end seat, and my armrest is carved to look like a pouncing lion. Definitely handmade. Did someone in the Capitol do that, or is there some sorry bastard out there in the Districts whose job title is Armrest Lion Thingy Sculptor? What a kick in the face, especially if the Armrest Lion Thingy Sculptor is from a starving District.

Sucks to suck.

I yawn and take a little nap while a few neon people talk onstage. They'll let me know when I'm supposed to be doing something, I'm sure.

Amelia hits my shoulder. "Ash!"

Or not.

"Eh?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes to find the interviewer's crazy smile grinning down at me from the stage. "Oh. Yeah, okay, sure, coming."

"Hel-_lo!" _ he yells as I plant myself in the chair across from him. "So how are you liking the Capitol so far?"

I make a big show of looking around. "Not bad. You have expensive taste."

The interviewer frowns for a split second. Shit, did he take that as a criticism? More importantly, did the Gamemakers?

"– Or at least it looks like it," I go on. "Everything, uh, looks really… nice. Yeah."

Okay, so, I'm not off to the most graceful start. Whatever. I'll figure it out.

"Your surname," the guy muses. "Lytton. And those grey eyes are awfully familiar. Do you have any relations we might know about?"

"I'm glad you asked," I smirk. "My family has been in and out of the Capitol a lot, yeah. A few Victors in the family tree."

"Should we be expecting another?"

I turn and wink at the audience, flexing a little. "You tell me."

**New rule: If I wasn't given a theme song, I'm picking one. :P**


	23. Interviews: Jaiven

**Okay, so I'm trying to shoehorn their signature quotes in, and some fit more gracefully than others. If there's a weird line of dialogue here and there, that would be why.**

**Warning: Ariel. He kinda got away from me in this one.**

**Other warning: references to Chapter Twelve, i.e. Luther doing what it is that Luther does. Nothing even remotely explicit in this one, but it does get pretty dark for a second.**

**Jaiven Cali, District Two, 18**

I don't forget to smile and bow at the crowd as I take the stage, but quickly enough that I don't leave Mr. Jolltree hanging when he offers me his hand to shake.

"Jaiven!" he grins. "What a pleasure to have you here."

"The pleasure is all mine, sir."

I take the opportunity to sneak a glance at the other Careers, who won't expect my attention on them right now. No death glares. Nice. I was pretty sure they were all okay with me, but you never know. The only one giving me anything like a dirty look is Woohyun—well, he's smiling, but not in a nice way—but I think that's just how he is. Plus I just talked him into telling me half his life story. He's got that kind of dysfunctional background no one knows what to do with. At least I can make sense of families full of screaming and beatings and that kind of thing, but cold discomfort and passive aggressiveness, everyone quietly crazy in their own way, eating disorders and slowly disintegrating relationships… I'd lose it myself if I had to deal with that.

But he described it casually enough, that crooked smile never leaving his face, like he expected it to bother me more than it did him. Maybe he was right. And still not because he wanted to hurt me in particular. Just because he was bored and felt like it.

Then I guess I pushed it a little too far, asking about the thin scar-like mark on his neck, and his face went blank and cold and that was the end of that.

Woohyun catches me looking at him and makes a face at me. Ariel leans around Amaris to make a face at him. Amaris bangs their heads together without missing a beat.

I blink and return my attention to Mr. Jolltree and his violently orange-red hair.

"Now, what inspired you to volunteer?" he asks, folding his hands in front of his chest and looking at me with sincere interest. His nails are four inches long and painted gold.

"I wish I could say something noble, like bringing wealth home or something," I say with a laugh. "But honestly, it just seemed like an amazing experience. The best adventure I could hope for."

Blatant lies. I know what happened to last year's designated volunteer when he lost his nerve and stayed quiet at the Reapings. Better the Games than that.

I mean, there's a kernel of truth in it. The Games _do _seem like an adventure. And I do want an adventure. Just not this one.

"How good do you think your chances are?"

I shrug. "Well, I wouldn't be here if I wasn't pretty confident. I've got a good alliance and I intend to play the Games honestly and cleanly."

Jolltree raises an eyebrow. "Has that ever been the path to victory?"

"I think it has. Good karma, if nothing else, right?"

He laughs. "I guess so. Well, good for you, I suppose."

"Thank you."

"But you're not squeamish, I hope? You're playing to win?"

"Of course. Someone unwilling to fight for what they want deserves what they get."

"No second thoughts about volunteering, though? No one waiting at home?"

I've already decided to answer this question honestly, but I hesitate just to play it up, taking a deep breath and playing with the hem of my sleeve.

Jolltree's face lights up. He leans in conspiratorially. "Come on now, don't you want them to know?"

"I… I hope she does know."

"But I'm sure she'd love to hear you say it."

I make a show of considering it. Hopefully I'm blushing as I turn to look straight into the camera. "Tavia Lamont, I love you, I miss you, and I'll come home," I say clearly. For all I know, she's not even watching—I told her not to waste time worrying about me—but that wasn't for her. She _does _know damn well that I love her; she didn't need to hear it from a TV screen.

Jolltree grins from ear to ear. "Awww, that is just _adorable. _I know we're all eager to see how this turns out."

Yeah, me too, I think to myself.

The interview continues in the same vein. I think I do well, coming off as polite and charming. A "good guy", I hope. Far from the usual Career angle, but I'm hoping to find an untapped demographic of people too softhearted to support someone blatantly terrible but also unwilling to get attached to someone who's obviously weak. At least that had been the plan, until Amelia played pretty much the same strategy. Oh well.

I'm not sure where I stand relative to the Ones, but the applause is solid as I bow again and remove myself from the stage. Okay. I didn't shake things up, but that went well.

Merona's interview goes just as smoothly. She looks beautiful, in a goddess-of-war sort of way, a slim gold dress setting off her pale skin and red hair. She comes off as confident and far more intelligent than I realized she was. Maybe not wise or deep, but certainly shrewd. Let that be a lesson to me, I guess; you can have healthy respect for someone and still underestimate them.

Luka, the Three boy, is… unexpected, especially considering his deer-in-the-headlights Reaping. They've put him in a suit, but he's still got multicolored hair and multiple piercings in each ear. This time he plays the part. The grin on his face is almost manic. He's loud and unrestrained, throwing smarmy winks at the audience, constantly moving in his seat, like he's about to start somersaulting across the stage. He walks off looking exhilarated. His training score put him back on my radar, and after this he's there to stay; even if the interview was an act, he's got a lot more passion behind him than I thought.

People don't give that enough credit as a factor, but I think it's the most important thing. Knowing how to fight helps, but wanting to win is everything. It's not the big boys who scare me. It's the ones with that certain spark in their eyes, where I can tell at a glance that if I turn my back on them before their cannon has fired, I can expect a blade in it.

His District partner, on the other hand, surprises exactly no one, electing to stare at the interviewer and mutter one or two words when asked a direct question. When Jolltree asks how in the world she managed a nine in training, she just smiles. There's no humor in it, but a lot of teeth.

Woohyun gets the same question as me—why did he volunteer?—but I know everyone, myself included, is more interested in his answer than mine. They play dumb, but the Capitol knows damn well that my volunteering was supposed to happen. His was a a surprise.

Woohyun shrugs. "I'm as satisfied as I'm likely to be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's a perk of being heartless. Chalk it up to teen angst if you like," he says with that same half-smile. "Doesn't bother me."

"You'd describe yourself as heartless, then? Why is that?"

"Telling you now would ruin the suspense. Maybe you'll find out if I make the top eight."

His departure from the stage gets a significant amount of fangirl screaming. Impressive, considering his angle didn't go that way at all.

Amaris hip-swings her way up to the stage, blowing kisses and winking at the wolf-whistles. Her dress barely qualifies as such.

"Another volunteer! Do I even have to ask if you're expecting to win?" Jolltree asks, never breaking eye contact with her cleavage.

"Looks like you do," Amaris laughs. "But it's not even about whether I expect to win. I _will _win. End of story."

"You're very confident."

"I'm realistic."

"No one at home you'll miss, though?"

Amaris laughs and laughs. "Oh, Jolltree, darling. Everyone worth knowing is right here."

He gasps. "Do you mean to say a beautiful girl like you doesn't even have a boyfriend waiting back home?"

"A boyfriend? From District Four? Don't make me laugh."

A few seats down, Woohyun mutters something indignant.

Jolltree raises a knowing eyebrow. "But you're implying you would date _some_one…?"

"Well, a Capitol boy, of course," Amaris says like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"You'd really deign to grace anyone with your affections after coming back a Victor?" Jolltree jokes.

"Oh, definitely. After an experience like the Games, I'm sure I'll have some… _tension _to release," she says breathily, winking at the audience.

The crowd goes wild. Well played. She might've just booted Ariel off the top of the Capitol's To-Do list.

Ariel seems to feel the same way. Off to my right, Woohyun is snickering as Ariel messes up his own hair and undoes his top few buttons, which I guess is his equivalent of suiting up to go to war. Ash and I exchange goddammit-here-we-go-again glances.

The crowd gets higher-pitched as some of the men stop cheering and more women start. Ariel takes the stage and bows, casually sweeping his suit jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair. Nothing he does is obviously risqué, except somehow it _is. _For a moment I'm too impressed to be uncomfortable. He's graceful, but while most graceful people make you think of ballet, he's got more of a tango going on. How long did he practice in a mirror to know exactly how much to arch his neck, or how much of a sashay he could get away with before looking cartoonish?

Merona glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "You don't like guys, do you?"

"Nope," I say, trying not to sound defensive.

But she just nods seriously. "Good. So you can tell he's evil, right?"

"Evil? He just seems like an airhead to me."

"Don't buy it. He's mean."

"Oh."

"So," Mr. Jolltree says, gesturing at Ariel's general existence. "This is a very different look from the Chariots."

It is. He's traded the wireframe atom helmet thing for a blood-red dress shirt and tight-fitting black vest.

"That's true. What do you think of it?" Ariel says agreeably.

"It's very, uh, aggressive."

In the corner of my eye, I see Merona take a deep breath and rub her temples, and I want to do the same. You shouldn't set Ariel up like that, as I quickly learned.

Sure enough, he grins like the Cheshire Cat. "What can I say? I'm versatile. I can do aggressive."

Woohyun sits up straight. "Is that so?" he mutters.

Merona gives me a _make it stop _look.

Jolltree puts on his thoughtful face. "Was this the same stylist?"

"Oh, no, I killed the last one," Ariel says lightly. _Ha ha ha, just kidding, _says his smile. _And I liked it, and you'll never find his body, _say his eyes.

Huh. I kind of see what Merona was talking about. There's something bloodthirsty about him. Possibly in a raunchy sort of way, but definitely in a dead serious sort of way. Jesus.

"Well… that's the spirit of the Hunger Games, I suppose," Jolltree says, clapping Ariel on the shoulder in a way that somehow involves running a hand across his chest.

Ariel smiles slyly and scoots closer. "I try. Anything else you want to know, sir? Anything at all? I'm an open book."

Somehow _book _becomes a euphemism when he says it.

"Well, I'll be perfectly honest with you," Jolltree says, winking at the audience. "I think there are a few questions we'd all like answered, but they're not things I can ask you on TV. Not to mention that it would be bad manners."

"Oh, you don't need manners with me, sir."

"Has this really never come back to bite you?"

Ariel blinks. "What?"

"I… you know, your… attitude. It's never…? No one…?"

"What are you asking me?" Ariel says slowly.

Jolltree obviously wants to backtrack, but it's too late. "Well, you did say to dispense with manners," he says with an attempt at joviality.

There's not the slightest shred of amusement on Ariel's face. "There's a limit."

"Well, I… Can you blame me for asking?" Jolltree blusters. He turns to the crowd for support. "Right?"

The Capitolites cheer. I'm not sure exactly what they're cheering for.

Ariel looks like he's going to be sick, or kill someone, or both. Every hint of his racy persona is gone. "What?" he says helplessly. "What the fuck do you mean?"

Jolltree tries to pat his shoulder again. Ariel scrambles out of his chair so fast he almost knocks it over.

A few seats down, someone is snickering quietly. I lean forward to see who. Luther, the Five girl. What's _she _laughing at?

Ariel turns his face away from the crowd for a moment and takes a deep breath. When he looks up again, he's back in full whore mode, all bedroom eyes and come-hither smiles. "Actually," he purrs, settling back in his chair and licking his lips, "Go ahead. Ask. I bet I've got some… _fascinating _stories."

**… ****Make of that what you will.**


	24. Interviews: Castalia

**Also not proofread. Sorry. I still love you all but this week has been aposjfaoijfgshijemsgos.**

**The vagueness on Caddis's interview is because his chapter is next and I've been going girl-boy by District within events. Yeah, I could've switched it, but I didn't notice until I was a few hundred words into this one and I hadn't updated in a while, so here we are.**

**Castalia Yaldim, District Nine, 15**

Well, this is disturbing.

I look around for something to distract me from Ariel's unsettling interview. To my left, Caddis is still doing that thousand-yard stare, his teeth gleaming in his best attempt at a smile. To my right, Fenris sits hulking and silent, like a monster in the dark. I look down at my hands, clasped in my lap. Okay.

That tense, awful moment onstage ends, and the interview is over soon after. Luther takes the stage. She pats Ariel's shoulder as they pass each other on the steps. He's facing away from me, but he stops dead for a moment, then keeps walking.

Luther is evasive and not much else. By the end of her interview, I have no idea where she goes to school, what her parents are like, or anything else. Ted's interview isn't very informative either, but that's more because he obviously has awful stage fright. Poor guy. Reyna is blunt and quiet, until Jolltree asks her flat-out what she expects to happen. She glares at the audience and says she'll win, and I can hear in her voice that she means it.

Kaya's playing the friendly, outgoing girl. I think she's forcing herself to be more extroverted than she really is; her smile is tight and she hesitates before answering the more personal questions. Jukai's friendliness seems more genuine, but bland; I think the audience forgets his name as soon as he leaves the stage. Desdemona is energetic and adorable. Atlas is grumpy. Caddis… well, it's Caddis. I've seen enough of him not to be surprised. Sometimes I forget the Capitol people have no idea what they're dealing with.

And then it's my turn.

I'm nervous-excited. The balance tips more toward nervousness when Jolltree bounds to his feet to shake my hand. He towers over me by at least two feet, and he's huge; no wonder Ariel and Ted were so twitchy. He's got that big-excited-dog air to him, like he doesn't mean any harm but might run you over by accident.

"So you're Castalia Yaldim!" he booms. "This _is _exciting. You've been keeping a low profile, haven't you?"

I shrug, wondering whether I should try to say something clever or what. "It's a lively crowd."

Jolltree glances at Caddis for a split second. "Yes, that's certainly true. And how do you fit into that crowd?"

Des already mentioned our alliance, so it's not like it's a secret. "Pretty well, I think. I've got an alliance. You've already met Des, but there's also Elfor and Felicity."

"And what do you think of them?"

I think they're perfect and wonderful and lovely people and none of them deserve to die, but that's not the right answer.

"Des is great. She's a good leader. Elfor's nice and a good archer, and Felicity knows a lot of useful stuff."

"What's your role?"

I shrug again. "I'm quick. I know plants."

And I work hard, and I'm creative, and I don't deserve to die either, but that's _also _not the right answer. Why does this have to be so _sad? _Everyone here is a good person. Deep down. Some deeper down than others. But _still, _how is it not blindingly obvious to Jolltree and everyone else that this is wrong?

"You're from a rural area, then."

"Er… no."

Jolltree blinks. "No? Then did you work for an apothecary, or…? I thought your father was a field hand and your mother was a housewife."

"That's true. But I, er, didn't live with them for the last few years."

"Where on earth did you live, then?"

Yet another shrug. "Well… you know. Here and there."

His jaw drops in exaggerated amazement. "On the streets, you mean?"

"And in the woods, and… yeah."

"But… the records I saw said your parents are alive."

"They are."

"So…?"

"I was disowned."

Now Jolltree looks perfectly heartbroken, like he can't fathom what kind of cruel monster could ever hurt a poor, cute little thing like me. Gee, I wonder.

"Why…?"

"My little sister was sick. I stole some medicine for her. I think she would've died."

"Oh, my. Well, laws are laws, but… oh, my."

I wasn't sure if I should tell the Capitol this, but I decided last night that I want people to know. I want to make it to the top eight, and then I want my mom to be hounded with questions about me. Then I'm going to win. And come home. And kick her out.

I give my saddest, most adorable sigh. "I know. I didn't want to do it, but what else was I supposed to do? But people don't break rules in my District."

"Very admirable of them."

"I… yes. So it was… kind of a scandal, you know, and my mom said she didn't raise me that way, and she kicked me out."

There's a pause while Jolltree decides how to arrange his face. He's toeing the line between flattering me and not encouraging rulebreaking, I know.

"Well," he finally says. "You seem like a good person."

I smile despite myself. Capitol or not, I'd rather just get along with people. "Thank you."

**So.**

**You know that annoying thing SYOT writers do sometimes where they go completely off the rails and start incorporating the Games into a larger plot? Yeah? I'm thinking about doing that. I promise I'll keep the outside-the-Games drama to a minimum until the Games are over, so if you're not interested in it, you can bail at that point. On that note, does anyone have any objection to me adding to their tribute's backstory to tie things in a little bit?**


	25. Interviews: Caddis

**This should be interesting.**

**Caddis Rapala, District Nine, 17**

"So," Jolltree says as I sit down across from him. "_So."_

I wait patiently for him to achieve a complete sentence that I can respond to. I've decided that I'll be very sweet to him. Hopefully the audience will notice, only I can't see how they could, with all the rude muttering and shifting that's going on. I want them to just… hush. _Shh. Shhhh._

"Your Reaping," Jolltree says.

That still isn't a complete sentence, but I gather it's all he has to say. I give him a friendly nod. "Yes. Very exciting."

"You, er… You tackled the escort."

"I feel _terrible."_

"What made you decide to do that?"

"Very emotionally charged moment, wasn't it?" I say with a shrug. "We all make mistakes. But like I said, I'm very very sorry. Is he alright?"

"I've, er, heard he's expected to make a full recovery."

I give Jolltree my best smile. "That's nice."

"I suppose it is," he says slowly. "Now, a more standard question, if you don't mind: do you think you'll win?"

"If I want."

"Do you want to?"

"Mm. Eh. I'll decide."

"And if you _do _decide to win–" The way he says it makes it clear that he doesn't believe I can win if I want to, and it makes me want to tear his throat out– "How would you go about doing it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what are your strengths?"

Another friendly smile. "I'm very creative."

"… Are you?"

"I am."

"In what way?"

"I like to make dolls," I tell him.

"Just as a hobby? What do you do with them?"

"I put on puppet shows. For little kids. I love little kids."

Jolltree opens his mouth, closes it again, and takes a deep breath. "And what do you make these dolls out of?"

"Oh, anything. Twigs, stuffing, cloth, buttons, string. Hair."

"Whose hair?"

"Mine. For the strings. The puppet strings. So I can control them. What's the point, otherwise?"

"What's the point, indeed?" Jolltree muses. "But I can't imagine that's what you showed the Gamemakers. But you got… a four, was it? You must have done something."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want to."

"But don't you get a score of zero if you refuse to demonstrate any skills? How did you get those four points?"

I consider it, then offer my best hypothesis. "Maybe they gave me the points because they like me."

Jolltree blinks. "That would be… handy, wouldn't it. The Gamemakers liking you, I mean."

"Mm. Not really. It doesn't matter. Like I said, I'll decide later."

"Well. You can certainly decide whether you _want _to win or not, but ultimately it'll be luck, skill, courage, and maybe a little help from your devoted fans. Right?" he says, turning to the audience. One, maybe two people cheer.

I smile patiently. "No, I'll decide whether I want to win or not."

"Yes, that's what I said."

"I'll win if I want to."

"Well–"

"If. I. Want. To," I enunciate clearly, since there's obviously some confusion on the topic.

"I… well, that's certainly a, uh, solid attitude to go in with."

"Mm."

I shouldn't get angry. I'm supposed to be sweet. They'll think I'm crazy at this rate. I'm not, as I keep having to tell everyone, but they might think so. It makes me very upset when people think I'm crazy. They don't treat me well when they feel that way, and it makes me want to treat them badly in return, and I really don't think that's a good way for things to be.

Besides, when I get angry, I do things I don't mean to do. It's better when I'm in control. Of _everything. _I'm so good at it. That way things aren't so chaotic, don't change so much when there's no good reason for it.

Like my damn escort, changing her clothes and hair and skin and face every hours just to stay on top of the latest trends. It was very irritating. Eventually I had to firmly ask her not to.

"So do you miss anyone from home?"

"The little kids. I love little kids. I put on puppet shows for them; they love it." Did I say that already? Oh well. I think it makes me seem very endearing.

"No one your own age, though?"

"No."

"No one at all?" Jolltree probes. "Not even a friend from school, or…?"

"No. There's no one," I snap.

He draws back, and I realize maybe I snapped a bit more literally than I meant to. Oops.

"Sorry," I say sweetly. "I didn't mean that."

"Right. Okay. And your family…?"

I smile, because I'm ready for this question. "My parents are wonderful. They work for the Mayor. I love them very much," I lie triumphantly.

"That's nice of you."

"Thank you," I say, careful to maintain my sweet smile. "I'm very nice."

xxx

**_Elsewhere in the Capitol_**

"He's gotten more paranoid. There's a group in Three that just tried to–"

"Not the point. We can't just kill him and call it a day; the government is a hydra. Someone worse will take over."

"So what do we do, slaughter the entirety of the executive branch, exterminate Tactics, and kill half of District Two to boot?"

"Not exactly. But look, heads are going to roll, okay? It's unavoidable. I'm doing my best to minimize the deaths."

"The tributes…?"

"May well have to be sacrificed. Among others. Look, I just need this thing in the Arena, okay? I couldn't get access after the final sweep."

"You can't tell me what it does?"

"You know I shouldn't."

"… You really think this will work? Whatever you're doing? You've got enough people behind you?"

"I've got someone from Tactics, okay?"

"How do you know someone from Tactics doesn't have _you?_"

"… Okay, I don't, but I guess I'll find out."

"I guess so."

"So will you give it to her?"

"If I can. Be careful, Tibbi."

**FYI, I'm moving Lillen to a suiting-up-before-Games scene so I only have to write one more godforsaken interview. Ugh ugh ugh.**

**The good news is, a. two more pregames! and b. I have giraffe socks on.**


	26. Interviews: Felicity

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

Why do I have to be last? The last thing is supposed to be the grand finale. I am not that. I don't have stage fright, exactly, but I think most normal people would be nervous to go on TV and be watched by… well… everyone, as far as I know.

Plus, oh right, there's the fact that I'm a skinny, introverted, decidedly non-grand-in-any-way fourteen-year-old girl. I spend my spare time reading about pyramids and cavalry charges, not dreaming up endearing, witty things to say.

And _then _there's Jolltree. I'm usually a polite person. I think everyone should be. But this is going to be a struggle.

I play with my dress as Castalia leaves the stage. I can't help being interested in how Fenris's interview will go. If Jolltree can handle Caddis, he can wrangle Fenris, but still. Best of luck to him. Not really.

Fenris stalks onstage with teeth bared. The boy is _huge._ A reasonable height, maybe six feet, but built like a tank. Even the Career boys are dwarfed by him. His face looks like it was made by smashing a rock with other rocks until it started to resemble a person. Maybe it's in my head, but I swear his grey eyes have a hint of wolfish yellow to them. Just from looking at him, it's alarmingly apparently that to end up in his grip is to die.

He sits down across from Jolltree and looks him dead in the eye, silent and staring, tensed like he's about to pounce. Jolltree gulps and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Not fun, is it, pal? Having to worry about him killing you? Join the club. We have T-shirts.

"So. Hello," Jolltree squeaks. "Uh, Fenris Carter, right. And how do you feel about the Games?"

Fenris digs his nails into the arms of his chair. "They're _taking too long to start," _he snarls.

"Oh. Well. So you're looking forward to, uh–?"

"Killing."

"Your training score–"

"With my _bare hands."_

_Crack. _The decorative, carved arm of Fenris's chair snaps in his grip. In my peripheral vision, I just catch Ariel Sevasti falling out of his seat. Guess he's feeling better. Back to normal, anyway.

Lillen doesn't change much. She's calm and easygoing, with that slight edge of anger. I get the feeling she's given up on herself, half because she's genuinely lost hope, but half because the Capitol loses most of its power over her if she doesn't care about winning. I respect that, I guess. But I want to live. Whatever it takes.

Like at his Reapings, Elfor all but panics. Definitely stage fright. He's pale like he's dead already, stumbling over his words. I feel bad for him; he's pretty charismatic and easy to talk to normally, but this is definitely a weakness for him. He knows it, too. The frustration on his face as he swings and misses spectacularly at a question is painful to watch.

Carmen tries to be pleasant. Tries. She's got an interesting, roguish charm to her most of the time, but she's not quite playing it up and ends up all but fighting with Jolltree. Ravy… I've never known what to make of Ravy. He almost never talks and it's easy to write him off as a dumb brute, but when he _does _open his mouth, it's always something intelligent. Sometimes he's almost sweet. Sometimes he's the most bitingly, acidly cynical bastard out there. Not at me. Just sort of at the world.

He takes what looks like a pained, patience-fortifying breath at the fangirl screams, then gives Jolltree a tight smile. "What a night," he says quietly.

"What a night, indeed!" Jolltree says about an order of magnitude more loudly. "And what a day tomorrow will be!"

Ravy laughs. "You could say that. _Only _you could say that."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

And then it's my turn.

"Felicity Haywood!" Jolltree bellows. "It's a pleasure to have you here!"

I decided I'd be frank, but I think my knee-jerk response to that would be a little _too _honest. "Thank you," I say instead.

"How have you been? This whole thing must be so exciting. What's been your favorite part so far?"

For a moment I stare at him in blatant disbelief. Is it possible that he actually believes I'm happy to be here? Really, truly, in his heart of hearts? I look into his purple eyes, but I can't tell.

"My alliance," I say. "They're wonderful friends."

"Refresh my memory; you're allied with…?"

"Elfor, Castalia, and Des."

"Ah, rightrightright! Lovely group. And Castalia described you as… knowledgable, was it?"

"I think it was."

"And are you?"

"I think I am."

"Ooh, going to be our mastermind this year, then?"

I laugh. "I don't think I'm anything like that. I just like to read a lot."

"And what do you like to read about?"

"History. Mostly really old stuff. Now I wish it'd been something more practical, though."

"Well, you never know what might come in handy," he says with a conspiratorial wink. "Have you read anything more recent?"

"When I can, but it's hard to find things about the formation of Panem." I could elaborate. Something tells me not to.

"Ah, yes, well, that was a dark time," he says gravely.

"Hmm."

"What a relief it is to be alive here and now, isn't it?"

"Being alive is just wonderful."

Jolltree grins. "And the best things are worth fighting for, aren't they? See, I knew you'd be a scrappy one. I can always tell."

A few seconds pass before I'm able to respond to that one. "… Thank you. I appreciate that."

**NO MORE INTERVIEWS WOOOOOOOO PARTY PARTY PARTY *confetti falls***

**Ahem. Anyway. Like I said, Lillen's chapter will be the suit-up. (Just wait 'til you hear about the costumes; you'll either love me or hate me. No, it's nothing (very) sketchy.) Then we'll probably hear from the Gamemakers again, and then it's party time. And by "party" I mean "murder". Eeeeheheheh.**


	27. Morning Of: Lillen

**Oh man I'm super pumped again, I've just bee walking around listening to Radioactive and Nuclear on repeat, you don't even know man**

**Lillen Ketch, District 10, 18**

People aren't that different from livestock. Fenris is a little closer than most, is all.

I volunteered before the chariots to help the stylists with Fenris. Really, it would be more accurate to say they threw his clothes at me and fled the room. I don't blame them; this shit isn't exactly within their pay grade. Not that it's in mine, either. Fenris likes me okay, but he sure as hell doesn't like formalwear. Getting a button-up shirt on him took an hour, lots of patience, a few quick dodges, and a conciliatory bag of beef jerky. The tie was a no-go.

Really, that's the key. You can push. You just have to know when to stop, and you have to know it before you've already gone too far. It's true of bulls and Fenris and everything else. Pride is all well and good, but there's a point where you have to know where you stand and what you're capable of, and not pick a fight with something five times your body mass with pointy bits of bone attached to its skull. Or with Fenris.

_Better to do a good job at your own pace than send everything to hell fast, _my grandpa used to say. He used to say a lot of things, actually. Like _if it looks like it'd burn for more than two minutes, don't eat it. _And _doesn't matter if it's farm equipment or livestock births: when in doubt, more lube._

He was a smart guy, my grandpa. Didn't take any bullshit. What would he do if he were here now, lying in a cushy bed in the Capitol, staring at the ceiling and wondering what to make of any of this? Try to survive, I think. But only as long as he's got a right to, and not a bit longer. Know where he stands. What the rules are, even if the Capitol doesn't understand the rules of their own game and never will.

My stylist, Kieri, wakes me up the morning of the Games, and I ask if they need help with Fenris.

"Yes, we do," she grumbles. "But it can't be you today. You're not allowed to see each other. Not until you're out there, anyway."

"How come?"

"That would be telling. Just come with me."

I follow her into the hallway. It feels weird not to get dressed and wash my face and that kind of thing, but I guess that's her job today.

"Lillen?" she says quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Can I do something that might put you at risk?"

"I think I'm already at enough risk that it doesn't matter. Go for it."

She nods and ducks into a narrow side hallway.

"Doesn't this look kinda suspicious?" I point out.

"No cameras out there. There are microphones, though," she says, mouthing the words more than speaking them as she pulls me into a little storage room.

I find myself crammed against a rack of the District Ten costumes for the last few years. I vaguely remember some of them. The neon pink cowgirl outfit from two years ago stands out in particular. I had a class with the girl who wore that. She made it to the top five, farther than people from my District usually do, but in the end a Career got her.

"Have you heard of Cinna?" Kieri whispers.

"Who?"

"Forget it. Are you…? Okay. About the Capitol. If I told you…?"

"I'm down for fucking up the Capitol's shit, if that's what you're asking me."

This could be some kind of trap, but I doubt it. They can't honestly expect me _not _to feel that way. And they've got me flying headlong into the Arena; why would they bother executing me for treason or something when they can just send me out there and drop a big rock on my head?

Kieri's face lights up. Literally. She's got LEDs installed in her eyebrows. "Oh, wonderful."

"What do you need me to do?"

"This," she says, handing over a smooth black plastic shell the size of an orange. It's heavier than it looks. "It needs to go in the Arena."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Nah, I've read enough spy novels to know that's how secret stuff works, it's fine. What do I do with it?"

"Just put it somewhere. Anywhere the other tributes won't mess with it and no one will notice. Roll it into the corner of a pitch-dark room, something like that."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"At the Cornucopia, you need to go down the hatches."

"Huh?"

"When you start, there will be a hatch in the ground directly in front of you. Go down there and lock it. Don't try to grab anything from the Cornucopia. Then hide this as soon as you can, for in case…"

"So I don't die with it in my clothes and it gets taken out with me."

"Exactly."

"I'll try."

"Thank you."

"Oh, anytime."

She gestures in midair. "Oh dear, we're running late!"

I follow her mad dash back out into the main hallway. Do they have contacts that tell time? Is there something implanted in her eye? That's… ew. Cool. But ew.

Kieri throws open the door to my dressing room. "Ta-da!"

My jaw drops. "Damn."

"Right?"

"_Damn."_

The Arena outfits are generally respectable, but this is better than respectable. This is _badass._ A long black coat. Serious-looking combat boots. Loose jeans. Gloves. A fitted bodysuit under everything. Everything black. Someone went a little overboard with the zippers and straps and buckles, but whatever; I can definitely work with this. It's very… post-apocalyptic.

Wait.

Uh-oh.

**PSA: The characters who survive are the ones I'm interested in, i.e. the ones I think I can do an interesting character arc with. So if there's some take on your character that I'm missing (or, hell, if you've got a cool idea for ****_any _****character), let me know. I can't guarantee I'll go through with it, but I will if I can.**


	28. Deyna Balthazar Is Not a Traitor, Kinda

**Posted a prologue chapter by accident, sorry if anyone got here soon enough to run into that. Anyway, here's the last pregame.**

"Well then, Balthazar?"

"Well, what? Sir?" Deyna tacked on hurriedly, pacing back and forth across the President's opulent office.

"Everything is prepared?"

"As prepared as it can be."

"I can't afford any errors. And that means you can't, either."

"Oh, I'm well aware, sir."

"Are you?"

Deyna stopped pacing. "Is there something I don't know about, sir?"

"There certainly is _something. _As to whether you know about it, well, I'd love to know that."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, sir," Deyna said innocently.

As it happened, Deyna was well aware that _something _was going on. It was subtle, but it was there. Odd, last-minute adjustments being made to the force fields by engineers he couldn't recall seeing before. Immense interest in certain aspects of the Arena by Gamemakers who had no business worrying about them. Gamemakers in charge of climate poring over tribute profiles. Tribute vetters studying his traps.

He was quite all right with this, because something had occurred to him: if the Capitol went down, these Games would be the last. Historic. Yes, he was probably setting himself up for execution no matter who came out victorious, but who cared? He'd be certain to go out with a bang. Possibly with a mushroom cloud. And so he elected to turn a blind eye to the creeping and whispering going on around him.

"There's a resistance movement within the Capitol itself," Fife said gravely. "And it's gaining momentum."

Deyna blinked. "Mr. President, I told you I am no traitor."

"I truly hope so. Then you understand why I need these Games to be…" Fife gestured vaguely, then bared his teeth and slammed his fist down on his desk. "Do you follow?"

"Like a duckling, sir. You'd like fear stricken into the hearts of all those who would dare oppose you, correct?"

"Er… correct. More or less."

Deyna smiled like a cat with a canary. "I can do that, sir," he said in the soft voice that he knew full well unnerved people. "It will be my pleasure."

"It's more complicated than that, Balthazar."

"Is it?"

"I don't want this thing growing. Everyone who's not already thinking about rebellion? Keep them that way. I've got the bread; you give them the circus."

"Of course."

"Give them what they want to see."

Deyna frowned and started pacing again.

Fife's expression turned dangerous. "Is there a problem, Balthazar?"

"Er… well. You see, sir, I'm not in the habit of manipulating the Games. It tends to–"

"Habits can be broken," Fife snarled, cutting him off. "I'll keep you informed of what needs to be done."

"… Thank you, sir."

"But you should be able to figure it out yourself, for the most part, and I expect you to do so, do you understand? The Nine boy scares people; get rid of him. Polls show that people want a fight between Fenris and a Career. Give them that. That, and fights within the Career pack, a confrontation between Kaya and Luther–"

"These things can be difficult to arrange, sir."

"Figure it out. I wasn't done. You'll give them a fighting death for Carmen, something cutesy between Desdemona and Atlas, get Woohyun to talk about himself, and of course Ariel will need to bleed for the cameras a bit–"

Deyna winced. "I understand, sir. And the District Threes? I presume we've had our fill of star-crossed lovers for a while?"

"Hmm… no, give them a chance, but under no circumstances should they be the final two. Plenty of tragedy and separation and sacrifice along the way, of course."

"Of course. But good moments, too? For the story?"

Fife frowned. "It'll look soft."

"Soft, sir?" Deyna protested, stopping dead and giving Fife his best crazy eyes. "Oh, no. Not these Games."

**There's a poll on my profile. Don't worry about the results, I'm just curious.**


	29. Bloodbath

**Happy Thanksgiving, by the way.**

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

They tell me slowly and clearly: These doors will open. Go that way. Stand on the grey circle. It will go up. Then you're on your own.

They back out of the little room and I'm alone and restless and pacing as the doors close behind them. Big, thick, sliding metal doors that shut with an echoing _boom. _The fluorescent lights overhead go out and it's just strips of glowing orange on the floor that direct me. The orange strips get longer as another thick door straight ahead opens.

Something's wrong. There's something bad and dangerous, I can smell it and feel it and hear it. There's a sound like a cross between shrieking machinery and an animal's wail, rising and falling. A siren?

_"__Please move to your platforms now," _a pleasant male voice says from nowhere. _"The platforms will ascend in ten seconds. If you miss your platform, you will forfeit the Hunger Games."_

I've never heard that word before - forfeit - but I can guess what it means. I sprint for the platform.

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

Oh no. Oh no. No no no. Nope. Nah. No, thank you. I quit. I'm done. Help.

As soon as the door closes behind my stylists and mentor, my thoughts blow up into terrified white noise. I'm just lucid enough to remember how fucked I am. I could so easily be dead in the next thirty seconds. Probably will be, given that I'm about to collapse.

So I have no goddamn idea what's up there except that it's terrible, and I'll have zero seconds to decide what to do about it, and if I guess wrong, well…

Except no, because I _do _know something that's up there: Viss. Viss, who's been in plenty of life-threatening situations and made it out of all of them, who doesn't seem to have gotten the memo that fear is an emotion experienced by humans, who five minutes ago put one hand on my jaw and one on the back of my neck and told me in her soft, flat voice to find her and she'd know what to do and we'd be fine.

Find Viss. We'll be fine. It's okay.

Then I hear the siren and panic all over again.

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

The sound is an air raid siren. I've heard it before, during a library binge on the Cold War. It would be terrifying even if I didn't understand the significance; there's something in it that churns up an instinctive, animal fear.

The ceiling slides back from my platform and I'm being rained on. The translucent grey poncho-thing they gave me protects me, but it doesn't make me feel better. I realize as the platform begins to rise that the rain is sticky and black.

The sky is grey. I get high enough to see the ground. That's grey, too, a wasteland of dark ash and rubble, bombed-out buildings maybe twenty-five yards away. The tributes are in a circle around the Cornucopia, as usual. There's also a circle of eight hatches in the ground halfway between us and the Cornucopia.

By now the taller, more athletic tributes are vaulting off of their platforms. I accept that I'll need a few more seconds and spend them watching everyone else. The Careers charge for the Cornucopia, along with a few others. The Six boy, Ted, bolts for the buildings. My suspicions about the whole thing are confirmed when the Five boy—nuclear reactor kid, I remember—scrambles off his platform looking absolutely terrified. He doesn't even glance at the Cornucopia or the other tributes; he sprints for one of the hatches and practically swan dives down it, slamming it shut after himself. I take this as a sign that I should do the same.

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

By the time I can even see what's going on, it's chaos. I heave myself out of the hole, onto the ash, and stumble to my feet. Directly ahead is a melee of Careers and a few others—the wiry little Three boy is diving for a backpack, the big Twelve guy is facing down a Career girl—and around me is hell.

"Des!" a familiar voice screams. Castalia. She and Felicity are a quarter of the way around the circle, heaving at a hatch in the ground. I skirt the fighting at the Cornucopia and run over as fast as I can, keeping my head down so the black rain doesn't get in my face. Something tells me it's bad news.

Felicity and Castalia have roughly zero upper-body strength between the two of them. I plant my feet and grip the handle of the hatch, tugging with all my strength. It swings open with a rusty shriek.

"Where's–?" I start to ask.

Felicity's eyes widen at something over my shoulder. I turn to see Elfor slide off the Two girl's sword. He tried the same thing as me, but he ran too close to the Careers. I watch in shock as his body falls to the ground.

"Move," Felicity snaps, shoving Castalia and I down the ladder inside the hatch. "It's poison out here."

"But–"

"Go."

"You two start," I tell her, then turn back to the chaos at the Cornucopia. "Atlas. _Atlas! _Over here!"

He's dodging back and forth, trying to get away from the Two boy. He bolts toward the sound of my voice. I gesture for Felicity and Castalia to keep going down the ladder, out of the way, then start down myself. Atlas comes crashing in after me. For a split second I see the silhouette of the Two boy looming at the entrance, but then Atlas yanks the hatch shut and all I see is black.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

So many people fighting us, I love it. And so many easy targets.

The blond Seven guy is jumping around in place halfway between his platform and the nearest hatch. "_Ted!" _he screams at the guy who's hightailing it to the burned buildings. "Ted, don't go that way, come back, we have to–"

I kill him before he can finish the sentence. Maybe Ted will figure it out on his own.

Amelia's facing the Twelve boy down off to my left. I'd help, but Ash is already running over. The Three boy is out of range; he was in and out before most of us were halfway there. I make a mental note that even though he's small, he's insanely quick. Another hatch clangs shut as he and his little girlfriend peace out.

_Thud. _The Twelve boy hits the ground dead.

_Clang. _The Five and Seven girls are gone. _Clang. _Tens. We're going to get stranded up here if we're not careful, and something tells me that's bad. Ariel seemed to think so, anyway, the cringing little coward. It took him, what, three seconds to bail on us?

I jog over to one of the last three unlocked hatches, standing over it and daring anyone to try to claim it. No one does. _Clang. _The Nine boy scuttles underground. _Clang. _The Six girl pulls a hatch shut, and I think Ted is with her? I thought I saw him near it earlier, gesturing like he was pleading with her not to lock him out.

Now it's just us. "Hey," I snap. "Time to go."

"We should go through the supplies," Ash says.

"We should grab what we can carry, fast, right this second, and then we need to go," I insist.

"She's right," Amelia says as she runs for the Cornucopia. "I bet it's radioactive out here."

"Oh, shit," Ash concedes.

One by one, clanking with supplies and weapons, we file down the ladder into darkness.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I pull off the plasticky grey poncho thing, careful to keep the water from getting on my clothes underneath. Hopefully no one else will know to be so meticulous about it. Enjoy your nuclear fallout, bitches.

I need to stay healthy because I need to be able to think straight and fight if necessary. I need _that _ because I am going to kill Luther Constantine if I have to reach back from beyond the grave to smite her pale, bony ass.

I've had people go too far, not listen when I said stop, and do things I specifically said not to do. But that? That was torture. Not in the good way. In the I-woke-up-screaming-the-next-night way.

She drugged me, or at least she tried, but she fucked up. I bet she gave me the exact dose for my size. But here's the thing: I do a metric shitload of drugs. I must have some tolerance to whatever she gave me. So it didn't work as well as she expected, and I think I remember more than she wanted me to, and what I remember makes me very, very angry, and I'm going to make her pay for it sevenfold.

**Dead: Elfor, Jukai, and Ravy.**

**How do you guys feel about the super-short POVs? The length will probably vary based on how much is going on. Also, if you haven't voted on the poll yet, please do! Uh, sorry to people who already voted for people I just murdered. Now you know who my Bloodbaths were; I told you I'd sneak a few in there. :P**


	30. Fallout

**I'm probably going to take some creative liberties with the effects of radiation sickness, by the way. Because plot, and dramatic effect, and I don't want to write about diarrhea, thank you very much. I like to keep my monsters and murders classy and stylish. :P**

**Lillen Ketch, District Ten, 18**

Kinda cold down here. Now I get what the fifty million layers of clothing were for. Dark, too.

I wait while Fenris snuffles his way around the perimeter of the room. All I can see is a bit of silver light glittering on scattered pieces of metal, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn he's got night vision. The light comes from a cracked, flickering screen in the corner, broadcasting mostly static, but the occasional glitchy shadow of what looks like a person's face.

"That's not creepy," I mutter. Fenris jumps at the noise. "Easy, wolfman. Just me. Find anything good?"

"No. Why are you here?"

It's only five words, but I understand his point exactly: we're not allies. He works alone. His gift to me is letting me leave this room alive. It stings a little, but I know I'm lucky.

I nod and leave, forging out into a pitch-black tunnel. Great.

The black plastic thing is in my pocket. I know I should plant it fast, before the excitement from the Bloodbath dies down and the Gamemakers start going after people. Where am I supposed to put it, though, and how do I get rid of it without the cameras picking up on it? I wish Kieri had been a little more specific.

It's still freezing cold and the tunnel smells like dead things. I think I just _stepped _in a dead thing. I shake my head in silent judgment of the Capitol and carry on, feeling my way along the stone walls.

Before long I feel metal. A door? There's definitely a handle, the kind on the door of grain silos, where you have to lift and twist with all your strength. I do so, feeling around to see what I've just gotten myself into.

A little room. A closet, really. Shelves, full of what feels like dirty beakers and test tubes. Some of them are hot to the touch. But at the very back of one shelf, there's heavy cloth. A backpack? A backpack. Don't mind if I do.

My first instinct is to yank it out and send the glassware flying, but on second thought, maybe I don't want to be covered in broken glass and who knows what else. I move the vials down to the floor carefully until I've got space to pull the backpack out.

I unzip it to find a decent haul: a few water bottles, plastic packages I hope are food, one of those super-thin emergency blanket things, and a metal cylinder. Flashlight, I realize. I pull it out and click it on. The light glints off the vials, illuminating the cloudy liquid inside, every color of the rainbow. Yikes. I point it down the tunnel.

There's something there.

I only see it for a split second before it pulls back around the corner. It was pale, with glowing eyes, like a cat. On the tall side to be a person.

Okay. Well, that's horrifying. Note to self: don't go that way.

**Jaiven Cali, District Two, 18**

"This stuff is heavy," Amaris complains. "We should find a base."

"We've been walking for two minutes. Maybe two and a half," Woohyun points out.

"Yeah, well, I'm tired."

"Are you a Career or not?"

"Easy for you to say, little mister I'm-only-carrying-a-sword-and-a-backpack."

"Am not, I got a blanket and a pistol too."

"Oh my god, fuck you. Ugh."

The conversation continues in more or less the same vein. My peacemaker instincts say to intervene, but I know it's not worth it; this is just how they talk to each other.

"Hey," Ash breaks in. "You guys see light?"

"That's my favorite thing!" Amaris exclaims.

"… Light is your favorite thing?" Woohyun says skeptically.

"Shut up, princess."

"Speaking of princess," he goes on without missing a beat. "Where's Angelface?"

Amaris huffs. "He bailed. Didn't even hesitate. Can I kill him if we find him? Bet I can give the Capitol something to play on repeat."

"How about no," I suggest. "It looked like he just panicked to me, and we could still use him. I think we should give him a chance if we find him."

"I get to scare him, at least."

"If you must."

"Ooh, yeah, that _is _light!" Amaris skips ahead, the small armory she's carrying clanking cheerfully. I'm half-expecting her to vanish down a trapdoor or something, but can't seem to muster the energy to call her back. Guess we'll find out.

Sure enough, there's a dim rectangle of light on the wall ahead, like an intersecting tunnel is lit. We slog our way there and it turns out to be partly true. The next tunnel isn't lit either, but light spills from a big door on the wall about halfway down. More, smaller metal doors line the walls, like we're in a storage area. I think I hear something scratching in one of them.

The lit room turns out to be gymnasium-sized, with industrial fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Each wall has a door like we just came through, a massive block of metal sliding on a track, but only ours is open. Weirder still is the hole in the middle of the floor. It's maybe the size of three king-size beds next to each other. Try as I might, I can't see anything but blackness.

"Hey, is there a flashlight in that stuff anywhere? Or a flare, or something?" I ask.

Merona jogs over with a flashlight and aims it down the hole. "Oh, wow."

There seems to be another room like ours a story down, with another hole in the floor. Then there are two more floors with the hole surrounded by metal railings, then one with a chain link fence, and that's as far down as I can see.

"Well, that's creepy as all fuck," Amaris remarks.

"It's a perfect trap, though," Merona says. "Tributes on the floors below will be drawn to the light. If we come up with a way to get down there fast—connect a rope to each floor or something—we could listen for them coming and slide down and catch them."

"And anything down _there _can come up _here," _Amelia points out.

"So fuck that and fuck you," Woohyun adds.

Merona blinks and looks down at the blackness again, casually grabbing Woohyun's hair and giving him just enough of a push toward the hole to make him yelp. "Yeah, no, I take it back. Do we even want to stay here?"

"Let's leave the stuff here for now," I suggest. "If we find somewhere better, we can move it."

"Who's guarding it?" Merona asks.

Everyone looks at Woohyun.

"Oh, c'mon," he grumbles.

**Reyna Alcott, District Six, 18**

I can't believe I let Ted talk me into letting him use the hatch. But too late, now he's here, following me down the ladder through the darkness. Which goes on. And on. And on.

We've got to be five stories down by the time my feet touch solid ground. Ted hops off after me. "So."

"Fuck off."

"But–"

"Fuck off before I knock you out."

He sighs, and I hear his footsteps blundering off into the darkness. Good riddance, until I catch him and kill him.

My face kind of hurts. I'm not surprised—I've always had obnoxiously sensitive skin—but it's weird. It feels like a sunburn, but I was only out there for a minute or two, and anyway it was cloudy. The rain? But I don't think it got on my face.

That reminds me to yank the poncho thingy off. I don't think we're meant to keep them; they seem too flimsy to last long. Just for the rain up there, I guess. But why go to all that trouble to stop us from getting wet? Sure, the rain was pretty gross, but…

I realize ten seconds too late that I should've been way more careful. The rain is dangerous and they were giving us a chance to avoid it. And now half of what was on my poncho is soaked into my coat and hair.

Oops. It's still not much, though; most of it rolled off on the way down the ladder. Nothing I can do about it, anyway. It's too cold to lose the coat and I don't have any way of cutting my hair.

That reminds me: I need a weapon. And food and water. But mostly a weapon.

I strike out blindly, staggering around until I walk into a wall. It doesn't take long. There's a corner a few steps away, and a door not much farther. I guess this room only has the ladder in it.

Now I'm in some kind of dark hallway. I can hear Ted muttering under his breath off to my left. I'm about to head right, but then I change my mind and follow him silently. Why not?

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

The first chance I get, I abandon them.

I tell myself it's because I'm totally amoral, always have been, why did anyone expect any different? But at the same time, I'm struggling to convince myself that I couldn't have protected them anyway. Who does it help, me sticking around to watch three little girls die?

That's it, really. I'm terrified of being responsible for them. I'm not that strong.

But now I'm alone and I'm having second thoughts. Not just because I feel guilty. Because this place is creepy as fuck and it's a million times worse when I'm alone. I left them the backpack I got, flashlight and all. I told myself it was so I wouldn't look like a _total _monster and turn the Capitol against me. Deep down I know I just didn't want Des to be wandering around blind in the blackness.

Which is lovely and all, except now _I'm _wandering around blind in the blackness, and I just heard something.

First I freeze. My instinct is to stay silent, but I've tripped over five pieces of metal in the last thirty seconds; whatever's out there knows I'm here. At least I can try to figure out what I'm dealing with.

"Hey," I growl in my best scary voice.

"Hey," a voice replies immediately. Male. Doesn't sound like one of the huge guys, but not one of the tiny ones, either. "Who are you?"

"Atlas. You?"

"Ted. Truce? I don't think I'm ready to try to kill you with my bare hands quite yet."

"Fine." I did keep the knife I got from the Cornucopia, but I want an ally more than a kill. "Where are you?"

"Here."

We marco-polo across the room—whatever the room is—until we quite literally bump into each other.

"Want to stay together?" he asks. I remember him as being pretty easygoing, but it sounds like his voice is shaking.

"Okay. Something happen to you?"

"Careers got Jukai."

"Oh. Sorry, man."

"Guess I'd better get used to it."

"Guess so. Now what?"

**Carmen Alvarez, District Eleven, 16**

I think I goofed.

I made it to the buildings. No one even chased me. It was too easy and I knew it from the beginning, but by the time I admit it to myself, it's too late. The only people left are the Careers. I'll never make it through them to the hatch.

I creep as close as I can, listening to them talking and rustling through the Cornucopia. I definitely hear the word _gun. _So it's one of those years, and now the Careers are packing heat. Great.

_Clang. _The last hatch is closed. I jog over to the Cornucopia and try each one for just in case. No luck.

Welp.

I return to the buildings for lack of anything better to do, crouching behind what's left of a stone wall and peeking over the top of what might have been a windowsill. The Cornucopia area is silent and still, except the ripples in the goopy puddles of rain.

The rain tapers off and stops within minutes. I peel my poncho off gratefully. Cold as it is, the plastic is making me sweaty and sticky. At least I think it's the poncho, but on second thought, I feel like I've got a fever. I'm a little nauseous, too.

I freeze at a hint of movement. One of the hatches is opening. The skinny Five girl creeps out, crouching low and tense, turning in a full circle. I duck below the windowsill when she looks my way. One she's satisfied that the coast is clear, she runs to the Cornucopia. There's another girl with her—Seven, I think—but she stays in the hole, holding the hatch open. Five slings her a backpack, knife, axe, and pistol. She takes another backpack for herself, along with two knives, two guns, ammo, and something small and shiny. Handcuffs? What the hell does she want those for?

I could attack, but I'd never get there without her noticing, and the deft way she loads the pistols tells me she knows how to use them. She slings a long rifle across her back and scuttles back to the hatch, and then I'm locked out again.

Damn it all.

The minutes creep by. I really don't feel good. Nervousness? But I feel calm enough, just sick. Sick enough to throw up on the ground.

Ew. Okay. This is weird. I move to the next building over.

More movement, at a different hatch this time. I resolve that I'm going for the hatch no matter what. I don't know what's happening to me, but I think being up here is making me sick.

It's the Five boy. He's just as jumpy and cautious as his District partner, like a cat creeping up on something, but he moves a lot faster. Physically, he's probably about as strong as the Seven girl, but he's no fighter and there's only one of him. I can beat him if I can get close enough to catch him before he flees underground again.

His back is to me as he rifles through the Cornucopia supplies. I creep out of the burned building, tiptoeing across the ash. The boy takes a haul almost identical to what the girl did, only he grabs a black case of something instead of cuffs. I expect him to run off with it, but he opens the case and pulls something over his head, tightening straps around his hair. A gas mask. Huh.

He turns around. I'm closer to the hatch than him, but barely. It's gonna be close.

To my delight, he hesitates, taking a step forward, then raising the gun, then presumably remembering he hasn't loaded it yet. Now I've got too much of a head start.

Should I bother trying to close the hatch on him? I think so. Otherwise I'll have him right behind me, armed to the teeth, and besides, I get the sense he's bad news. Better to take the opportunity to get rid of him here and now. I plant my feet and grab the handle.

Aaand it's heavy. Okay. That was a big mistake. I glance up to find the boy standing ten feet away, fumbling with the gun. If I go down the ladder now, I'll be a fish in a barrel.

I do the only thing I can and charge him, tackling him to the ground, lunging for the knife on his belt. He's stronger than he looks. I should've known, given how fast he got through the hatch the first time, but I realize it too late. He's fighting like a demon, too. I'm coughing on the ash we're kicking up. I get a hand around the strap of the gas mask and pull it off for a second.

Huh. He's even prettier up close. What lovely green eyes.

But that's not the point right now, I remind myself. The look on his face is terrified and furious. I think he's holding his breath. Then his fist hits the side of my head and I let go.

So he doesn't want to breathe the ash. That's… not a good thing, given that I've inhaled quite a bit of it.

I get a boot on one of his wrists and a knee on his chest. The thought crosses my mind that the Capitol must love this. Yick. He's trying to hold me back, but I've got most of my body weight to work with; he's not strong enough to stop me from finally snatching the knife and getting it to his throat.

"Wait," he gasps, his voice tinny and mechanical through the mask.

"You've got five seconds."

"You've already taken a fatal dose. But I can help you."

**Yep, there are crawlers in this Arena (the thing Lillen saw). There are always crawlers in my Arenas. And they always rack up a hell of a body count. Er, spoiler alert. But c'mon, you knew that thing was bad news. :)**

**As a general rule, loners get shorter sections, because unless they're fighting something or philosophizing I don't have much to talk about.**


	31. Seventy-Seven

**Also, something I said in a few review replies but might as well put here: an unfortunate side effect of nuclear detonations is that radioactive material usually gets blasted up into the atmosphere, where it drifts around for a while before coming down, often as sticky, toxic black rain. ("Fallout", as in "falling out" of the sky.) Depending on the conditions, it can come down thousands of miles away. And that's why nuclear war is bad. Well, one of the reasons. Now you know. Write to your Congressperson, kids. And adults.**

**(But seriously, if I can soapbox for a second as someone who knows a bit more about this than the average person? Nuclear power: good. Nuclear weapons: very very very very bad. I think the public perception of them as a Very Bad Thing has kinda faded out and gotten diluted, but never forget that they're fucking terrifying****_._****)**

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

"And then what?" I ask, rooting through the drawers of the dusty old desk against the wall of the dusty old room. At least the lights are on. The stuff inside is mostly useless, but I've found a notebook, pen, and a pair of scissors. You never know.

"Huh? Oh yeah! So then there's a Peacekeeper after me, right? And I don't even know what the hell I _did _at that point, but–"

There haven't been any cannons. Which means there must be some other way to tell who's left alive. That, or we just try to keep track, which is why I think the notebook will be useful.

It's not empty. The first half is full of equations I can't make head or tail of, but then it devolves into an apocalyptic log, full of crazy scribbles. _We've been down here seventy-seven days, seventy-seven, seventy-seven, seventy-seven, _so on and so on, covering three pages. _Levels going up. Genetic damage. Unsustainable. Sector Two no longer livable._

"Huh," I mutter.

"No, really," Luka insists. "I shit you not, Dad threw him _in _a second-story window."

I crack a smile despite myself. "Your dad sounds great."

At first I figured his dad must be the toughest, most cynical guy on the planet to raise such a sheltered, innocent son, but the more I hear about him, the less it seems that way. Luka's dad—Joel Skade, I think he said—certainly seems more intimidating than Luka, but from how he talks about him, I get the feeling he's got that same weird purity to him. Maybe it's genetic.

Speaking of genes…

"Luka, don't sit on barrels with the radioactivity symbol, 'kay? You're nuking your future children."

He sighs and stands up. "You're awfully optimistic on my behalf. And you get away from that thing, then," he says, pointing at a rusting drum of who-knows-what.

"Doesn't matter as long as I don't get too sick to fight," I shrug.

"Aw, c'mon. Think about your hypothetical children."

I raise an eyebrow. "You think _I'm _gonna have children?"

"It could happen," he shrugs.

"Yeah, no. Even if I'm alive, I don't deal with the screaming little balls of hate, thanks."

"Screaming balls of _adorable_, you mean."

"I absolutely do not mean that."

He laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"You know in those reality shows where someone's acting stupid and someone else turns and gives the camera that _look?"_

"I think I've seen one like that, why?"

"You're the personification of that look."

I consider that. "Thank you, I appreciate that. Does that make you the dumbass who triggers it?"

Luka laughs again, takes my hand, and bows to kiss it theatrically. He does stuff like that. I don't mind; I guess the physical boundaries between us have long since been shattered. Somehow him sleeping on my floor led to him sleeping in my bed, and one thing led to another from there. He's very… generous in the bedroom. Gentle and deferential, but he doesn't seem to expect or even want the same in return. And he knows exactly what he's doing. I wouldn't mind having another go, but, cameras and all.

Anyway.

Luka's very physical, but not in an aggressive, pushy way. Braiding my hair and kissing my hand is more his style. It's cheesy, but I think I like it. I think I like _him_. A lot. Even though I'm in the Hunger Games, I'm happier than I've been in my life. Hell, I'm actually smiling with some regularity, and it's all because of Luka. He's a glowing, rainbow-haired little furnace of pure joy.

I cannot, _will _not let him die.

I shake the mental image of his shattered body out of my head and return my attention to the notebook. The scribbles get bigger and crazier and more ominous. _22 R/hr, 24, 27… Still can't isolate the leak. May be multiple, or total material failure._

_Supplies contaminated. _

_Not enough water_

_The water is toxic_

_Sector Three evacuated, disturbance in Five_

_SOMETHING'S DOWN HERE_

_THERE'S SOMETHING DOWN HERE WITH US_

_WE'RE GOING TO DIE_

"What's it say?" Luka asks, trying to lean over my shoulder.

I snap the notebook shut. "Just a bunch of math."

"Lemme see?"

"Nothing you'd know."

"I might."

"Luka…"

"It's not math, is it?"

I hesitate. "Well… there's _some _math."

He plucks the notebook from my hands. I don't try to stop him, even though I know I could. His face, already pale, goes dead white as he flips through it. "Oh," he says weakly.

"Yeah."

"You don't have to protect me, you know."

I shrug.

He steps closer. "Viss, I'm serious. We're in this together, okay? Don't try to stop me from being scared. I'm already scared. I'm fuckin' terrified. But let me pull my weight, yeah?"

"Yeah," I say without looking at him, because I can't take the puppy-dog eyes. Now I feel bad. Have I been patronizing him? I don't mean to, but there's something about him that makes you want to hide bad things from him. It's not just that I want him to live, I guess. If he walks out of the Arena alive, but as a broken, bitter, nihilistic wreck, I've failed.

"That's gotta mean something, though," he muses. "I mean, the water's obvious, but what's it talking about? Something's down here with us?"

"Probably a lot of things down here with us," I point out flatly. "Careers, mutts, traps, radiation… what else d'you want?"

"Still, though. Makes it sound like some kind of final boss."

"Huh?"

"Like… a specific scary, dangerous thing. The thing that'll get you if nothing else does."

"You're awfully pessimistic today."

"Well, sure, I gotta balance out you telling me to think of my children, irrepressible barrel of sunshine that you are."

"Bastard."

"That's true, I am," he says cheerfully.

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Me too. I think."

Luka holds up his hand for a fist bump. I return it.

"Hope Dad doesn't mind me saying that on TV," he says, glancing around like he's looking for a camera. "Sorry, Dad! Love ya! Tell Chekhov I said hi! Don't let him play my video games!"

I bite it back, but the laugh comes out as an undignified sort of snort.

Luka's jaw drops. "Did you just laugh?"

"I did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"You totally did! Holy shit! I didn't know you could do that."

Nor did I. I can't remember the last time it's happened. When I was three, maybe?

Luka's face lights up. "Can you do it again?"

"Don't push it."

"Is that a challenge? Oh, it's on, sunshine, I bet–" His eyes widen. "_Duck!_"

Something grabs my shoulder. There's a smell like rotten blood. I throw myself to the ground, the pale, bony hand losing its grip on me.

_Crack. _Luka's fist connects with the face of… something. My view isn't the best from down here. Before he can hit it again, it grabs him, slamming him back against the desk.

I grab it around the knees. Its skin is cold and slimy. The monster and Luka come crashing down on top of me. It's got him by the throat. He's got a boot on its jaw, keeping it from getting its teeth near him.

I yank an arm free, grab my knife, and ram it into the thing's throat. I'm splattered with sludgy, dark grey blood. It lets Luka go and turns on me with a gurgling snarl. Now I can see its face, freakishly big and misshapen, hairless, with huge black eyes and way too many needle-thin teeth. Luka's on his knees, clutching his throat and gasping for breath.

The monster lunges at me. I scramble backwards across the room, kicking at it whenever it crawls too close. Luka staggers to his feet, runs over, and jumps on its back. I can hear its ribs break. He dances away, snatching a piece of pipe from the floor, but it doesn't move again.

"Huh," I say.

Luka leans against a metal cabinet, then slides to the floor. "Holy shit," he squeaks.

"You okay? Did it bite you?"

"Nah, I… I-I'm fine," he says, rubbing his throat, which is already starting to bruise.

"Thanks for warning me."

"Yeah, no problem. Thanks for stopping it from ripping my head off."

"Welcome."

"Holy shit," he says again.

"Yeah."

"Holy _shit."_

**And so much for the short POVs. Oh well. Sorry for the obnoxiously irregular chapter/section lengths, but I've found I can keep my enthusiasm and train of thought going much better if I publish something every 1-2 days.**

**Also, I made a playlist, because I'm a huge nerd. Go to 8tracks dot com slash GammaBetaAlpha if you want to hear it.**


	32. Something Fun

**New rule: if I say anything about when and in what format I'll update, and it's any more specific than "an update of some sort will eventually happen", ignore me. **

**Woohyun Averi, District Four, 17**

I'm seeing things. I hope.

It's just tiny flashes of movement way down there in the dark. They vanish when I look directly at them. I'm tempted to write it off as sleep deprivation; we've been in the Arena for hours and it's not like I was well-rested when I got in here.

It could be worse. At first I thought they were going to leave me here alone, which, while I'd never admit it, would have scared the hell out of me. But then Jaiven pointed out that there are two ways into the room, so having one guard isn't the best idea, and anyway most of the alliances out there could take me in a fight.

I want to hate Jaiven, but it's tough. He always knows exactly the right thing to do and say. So much so that it almost seems fake, only I can't get mad at him for it, because he says the right thing to make me _not _get mad.

So he left with Amelia, and Merona and Amaris struck out together, and I was left with Ash. He's leaning against the wall right now, crossbow in one hand, bag of beef jerky in the other, munching dolefully.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" I ask, even though I'm not feeling so chipper myself. Then again, if I ever acted chipper, people who know me would probably try to send me to a psych ward.

Ash smiles. "You must be bored. Draw a picture or something."

"Aw, you don't want to talk?"

"Not about panties. And don't twist that into a joke," he says before I can do exactly that. "I'll throw you down there for real."

"Like hell you will."

"You're alive because no one wants to make a scene by killing you," he says matter-of-factly. "So yeah, I probably won't. Not worth the trouble."

I roll my eyes and glance into the pit again. And then look harder. I _know _I see something, way down on the bottom level. Something with glowing eyes. I feel like it's looking at me.

"I'm also charming as fuck," I point out.

"You're an ass. Don't get me wrong, I'd chill with you outside the Games," he says with a yawn and a shrug. "But you've got a hell of a mouth on you for someone who's built like a string bean."

I scowl. "I don't 'chill' with people."

"Whatever."

**Caddis Rapala, District Nine, 17**

It's like a playground crossed with a haunted house. I love it. I spend the first few hours entertaining myself by seeing how long I can get around without ever touching the ground. As it turns out, pretty much indefinitely; most of the ceilings have pipes I can crawl on, and there are wires and cables everywhere.

The wires aren't always the best idea. Some of them are sparking. The whole place smells like burning rubber, and a lot of the pipes are leaking. It looks like a lab building from a science fiction movie, if it had been trashed and then abandoned for decades.

I _love _it. I want to make something. Something fun. Something I can control to entertain all of Panem with.

There's a rusting sign on the wall: _SECTION 3A, WORKSHOP/LABORATORY 5, _and an arrow. Workshop? That should be a good place to make something. I run in the direction of the arrow, following the signs until I arrive at a set of double doors.

Doors? That's boring. I'm going to try to get in through the ceiling.

I clamber up the pipes on the wall until I can slither on top of the network of them on the ceiling. They vanish into a dark gap above the door. It's mostly filled in with plaster and cement, but there's a little gap. I'm little.

I squeeze through and wriggle forward. It's mostly dark, but there are little slivers of red light under me. From the workshop, I think, coming through gaps in whatever the ceiling is made of. I keep going, feeling my way around in the dark, until I find a gap big enough to see through.

I'm right above a countertop. If I hang onto the pipe, I can kick through the ceiling and only have a few feet to fall. I do so.

"_Holy fucking–"_

I dust plaster off my hair and turn to the source of the voice. A boy in a gas mask, much taller than me, but almost as skinny. District Five, maybe? He's got his back to a counter, tense, his hands half-raised like he's expecting to have to throw a punch.

"Hi," I say.

"… Hi."

I glance around. There's a pile of stuff on the floor next to him. I think I see a gun under his black coat, but I'm not sure. Certainly a rifle is leaning against the area of counter he's claimed as a workstation. The whole room is lit only with dim red light, reflecting off the lenses of his mask. Some of the equipment is smashed and broken, but a few pieces are lit up and whirring. Weirdest of all, there's a tangle of stuff by the door. A wire stretched between them, looping back around to a gadget attached to a few metal canisters, like something you'd store pressurized liquid or gas in.

I look more closely. The canisters are labeled with one of those colored diamond chart thingies signifying what, if anything, is dangerous about the stuff inside. I don't remember which color is which, but at least two of the diamonds have the number 4 in them. I think that's the highest one. And it says HCN. If I'm remembering chemistry right, that's hydrogen cyanide.

And the boy is wearing a gas mask. Oh. I get it. He set up a trap for the _other _tributes, but I almost walked right into it!

I give him a cheerful smile. "Yikes. Good thing I came in through the ceiling."

"Close call," he agrees.

"Now what?"

"You tell me."

That gets him an even bigger smile. "Thank you, I will. I like you. I'm here to build something. I like to make dolls. What are you doing?"

He sidesteps to block my view of the pile of tools and vials and metal and circuit components behind him. "Oh… just messing around."

I hop off the counter. His hand darts to his belt. "Hey," I say.

"What?"

"I didn't notice before 'cause of the red light. How come you're all bloody?"

I can't see his face because of the mask, but he hesitates. "I shot someone."

"Really? Who?"

"Eleven girl."

"How'd it feel?"

Another pause. "It didn't. Not really."

"Ooh." I take another step forward. He flinches.

"Look, how about this," he suggests. "You do your thing, I'll do mine. Deal?"

"Works for me," I shrug. "Hey, wait."

"What?"

"Why aren't you shooting me?"

Yet another pause, this one the longest so far. "I think you're interesting. And I like your hair."

"Really? Thank you! I make puppet strings out of it."

"Yes, I remember."

**Yeah, Ariel killed her as soon as she let him go. *sad trombone* Next chapter is probably Merona and Luther, but I did just say not to listen to anything I say along those lines, so who knows.**

**Also, fun fact of the day: there are actual reasons to have creepy red-lit labs, i.e. any sort of experiment involving the absorption of certain frequencies of light. So, spectroscopic imagining, etc.**


	33. The Thing

**Eheheh.**

**Merona Styx, District Two, 18**

"Left! Go left!" Amaris screams. I can't see anything in the dark tunnel ahead of us, but I take her word for it, throwing myself down the intersecting corridor. Amaris's footsteps pound after me.

"We should… fight it," I say between breaths. "Before we let it… tire us out."

"Are you insane?" she gasps. "Did you… see that thing?"

"Fuck."

I don't know what's chasing us. I know it's big. A little shiny, like it's got metal parts, but it didn't move like anything mechanical. In the split-second glance I got, I saw something twisty and turny and lightning-fast, like the incarnation of a demon in a scary movie.

Amaris makes a scared noise. She must've looked over her shoulder. I'm not wasting my energy on that.

"Up," she pants. "We have to go up, it's… just down… here. I think."

She's _really _tired. I can hear it in her voice. I'm slowing down a little so she can keep up, because if she makes it out of this, I want to keep our mini-alliance going a little longer before I kill her. But if it looks like she's done for, well… bye. She's not that important, when all is said and done.

We pass a sign with the radiation symbol on it. STORAGE DOCK THREE. DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT. Hmm.

Suddenly we're in a huge room, like a warehouse, stretching off in front of us and to either side. It's full of massive metal drums, each one at least fifteen feet high, rusting and plastered with warnings. The lights are, of course, dim, flickering fluorescents. Great.

The thing is gone. I look behind us. Just the gaping tunnel.

Amaris stops running, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath.

"Amaris, no, we can't stop here," I say even though I'd like a break myself. Between whatever's in those drums and the Thing, this isn't a good place to be.

She closes her eyes, grits her teeth, and straightens up again. Her breathing is ragged, but she forces herself into a quick jog.

There's a clicking noise, getting louder as we move. Irregular. Coming from a little table next to the door. Some kind of gadget.

I don't know if it's instinct or if the temperature of the room actually drops, but all of the sudden I'm terrified. Amaris must feel it too; she breaks into a sprint again even though her breath is coming in sobs.

This time I'm the one to look behind us.

"Oh, holy fucking _fuck, _Amaris, _run!" _I scream, bolting past her.

She catches me again within a few seconds. I'm less tired, but she's the faster sprinter, and fatigue stops mattering when we're both terrified. I can _hear _it, sort of, just outside my range, something high-pitched with a rustle like silk on silk. Something's moving in the corner of my eye. Something's wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground on my face, hard. Amaris has reached the door and it setting her weight against the twisty latch thing.

It sinks in. The Thing has me. It sinks in more thoroughly when there's a burning pain across the back of my leg.

I don't think. I grab my sword and lash out wildly, kicking and slashing and thrashing until I'm vaguely aware that I'm free again. I stagger to my feet and start running again, feeling the blood dripping down my calf.

Amaris finally has the door open. I tumble past her and she slams it shut. No lock on this side. We're on the landing at the base of a staircase.

"Keep running?" I suggest.

"Keep running," she agrees.

We're two floors up before we collapse to the ground to catch our breath.

"Well," she says.

"Ow," I say. "Ow. Ow. Fuck. Ow."

"Bleed-to-death _ow _or not?"

"Not. I think. Who does first aid?"

"The Girl Scouts, I think." Jaiven and Amelia, that is.

"Yeah. Okay," I say. "Let's get back to base before I pass out."

She could kill me now. Easily. But it's too early, and this isn't a bad enough wound to make me useless. Barely hit the muscle, I think. I need a bandage, maybe stitches, but I'll be back in action tomorrow.

We finally make it back to the big room to find Ash and Woohyun leaning against the wall next to each other, chatting idly about cats and whether they are or are not assholes. As soon as they notice us, they shut up and scoot away from each other.

I don't get boys. I just don't.

"You're leaving a trail of blood," Woohyun observes.

"Yeah, no shit. Jesus and Gandhi not back yet?"

Ash blinks. "Who?"

"Forget it."

"Okay."

"Did you see the thing?" Woohyun asks.

"What thing?"

"Something came out of the pit. Look. Look at that," he says, running over to the pit and pointing at the chain-link fence on the bottom floor. There's a massive, floor-to-ceiling rip in it that most certainly was not there before. "I saw it, kind of, it… it… holy fuck."

"Yeah, we saw it too," Amaris says.

"_Saw_," I mutter. "I wish."

"It did that?" Woohyun asks.

"Yep."

"… And you're alive?"

I roll my eyes. "That's why you don't fuck with me."

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

The computers are so easy to get into I can't imagine they didn't want me to do this.

I've got Kaya stationed at the door. I realize this is dangerous; the room was glaringly labeled SECURITY BOOTH, with signs throughout the Arena directing me toward it. I doubt I'll be the only one wondering if there's any good information to be had here. Besides, everything in the Arena has a price. The more useful this place is, the more likely it is that something will come along to kill me.

I resent that.

It's not exactly self-explanatory, but I don't have to get very clever before I've got all the information I could possibly want that they'd dream of giving me. Some traps, undoubtedly not all, and their status over here. A list of the dead over there. And over here…

Ooh. Cameras. _Very _interesting. I have to do quite a bit of searching and clicking around to get anything useful, but before long I've found almost everyone. Two Career girls run past a camera, wide-eyed. A moment later, the camera feed blacks out. I check where they are. Floor One. Hmm.

The other Careers are having a less exciting day. Jaiven and Amelia are wandering in circles. Ash and Woohyun are throwing beef jerky at each other. Two outer-District boys are blundering around the second floor. Floor Two is quite busy, actually. The Six girl is skulking after the boys. The little-girl alliance has camped out in a vault. Too bad there's a monster creeping up the hallway. The insane blond boy is tinkering with what looks like a horrifying doll in a workshop, and on the other side of the room…

Ah, my pretty little adversary. _There_ you are.

"What?" Kaya says.

Oops. Was that my out-loud voice?

"Nothing," I say lightly.

I return my attention to the screen, squinting at the circuitry at his workstation. _What are you up to? Is that a trap I see? And pistols and rifles?_

I'm almost impressed. I knew he would be a formidable opponent, but he's exceeded expectations so far.

I can't wait.

**Nothing good ever happens in the 1:30am updates, does it? Although come to think of it no one took any real damage. But never fear, I'm setting up some Very Bad Things.**

**So I wanted to make a TVtropes page for this because tropes are my favorite thing, but I lost my old password and the site was being a lil bitch when I tried to make a new account. Point is, I totally understand if you've got more fun/productive things to do, but, y'know, if you're bored, it'd be cool.**


	34. Monster

**The song (you'll know it when you get there, believe me) is Yoncé/Partition, because of course it is. I also considered the Instant Party remix of Off to the Races because yes every scene in this has a soundtrack over here in Foaly-land because that's how I roll.**

**Warning: Luther being massively creepy. I really don't know what's going on here, but whatever it is, it gets weird. I dunno, I hope no one's super uncomfortable with the mess that is District Five, because that's only going to get worse. (If it helps, Luther is actually asexual; the I-have-you-now-my-pretty attitude is just to make Ariel upset. The Capitol… not so much.) Point is, I rated this M for a reason, so be prepared for things to get very nasty at some point. I'll still put warnings in the author's note for particularly bad scenes.**

**Other warning: This one's a whopper word count-wise (finals? what finals?), but it should be pretty interesting. Actually I probably should've split it up, but, meh, I'm impatient.**

**Castalia Yaldim, District Nine, 15**

"Guys. Guysguysguys. Guys," Des says, her voice tight and quiet, staring over my shoulder.

I turn slowly.

Oh. That's a monster. In the doorway. Tall and pale, with huge eyes so black I think they're empty sockets for a second. It's standing perfectly still, just watching us. Something tells me it's been patiently waiting for us to notice it.

I want to cry. I think the thing is designed to be as scary as possible. I know I have to fight, but I'd almost rather just curl up in a ball and save myself some stress and fear.

But I have to make the final eight. I have to, or else Dell will happily bury me and no one will ever know how she's tearing my family apart.

Felicity turns around slowly. For a second her eyes go wide, but then she's calm again. "Okay," she says softly. "No sudden movements."

"Will that help?" I whisper.

"I'm not sure. I'll explain." She never takes her eyes off the monster. "I thought I saw a vent grille in the wall. Can we get in there?

Des walks over to the grille in slow motion. "Yes, it opens. It's big enough."

"Go in. Go in _right now." _Felicity's voice gets tenser and faster as she finishes the sentence, and I turn to find that the monster is opening its mouth into an awful smile. Its teeth are like syringes and it must have hundreds of them.

Des clambers into the vent. The metal shifts and pops under her weight, sending a loud, reverberating _clang _through the vault.

The monster lunges at Felicity. Felicity dodges backward with a yell. Before I can react, she pushes past me, diving into the vent. I scramble after her, but she and Des haven't moved far enough for me to pull my legs in; the monster sinks its teeth into the top of my calf, right above my boot.

I scream and kick it in the face reflexively with my other foot, then do it again again. My arms aren't strong like Des's, but my legs are. The monsters teeth shatter and it drops out of sight with a hiss.

"_Go!" _I scream.

Finally we're moving. I barely have room to look over my shoulder, but I do every few seconds anyway. No sign of the monster.

Not that I'm much happier now, crawling through the ventilation system. It's pitch dark, cold, and echoey. I swear I hear metal shifting ahead of us. I wonder if it's the Gamemakers rearranging the tunnels, making sure we end up where they want.

"So how'd you know it wouldn't attack until we made noise?" Des asked.

"I figured, us versus it, unarmed in an open room, we'd have no chance, right? But I doubted the Gamemakers would want to kill all three of us so fast. They'd leave us some way out without fighting it directly."

"I think I knocked it out of something," I point out.

"They wouldn't have expected that, though."

The tunnel opens into a big room full of pipes. Only it's not a room, I realize. We're in the roof of somewhere. Dim red light shines through little cracks and holes in the material beneath us.

"So–" Des says.

"Shh," I cut her off. "Someone's coming."

We flatten ourselves against our pipe even though there's next to no light in this corner of the room. The rustling sound, accompanied by grumpy muttering, gets closer. And closer.

The crazy blond Nine boy appears from the darkness, dragging himself along the top of a duct. There's something strapped to his back. At first I think it's a person, but as he gets closer still I realize that it's a doll. In the worst way possible. It's intricate and detailed, made of scraps of what could be lab coats, with features of circuit components and limbs of ring stands, but it's the creepiest thing I've seen in my life.

He grumbles and mutters his way past us. "–Can't open the door, hmph. You should've thought of that _before _you had a guest, honestly. Rude. Everyone knows…"

He vanishes off into the pipework. We give him a solid ten minutes to get far, far away from us before we move again.

"Now what?" Des asks.

I swallow hard. "I think my leg needs bandages. Or… something."

"It bit you?"

"Yeah."

I don't mention how Felicity shoved me. I understand, I guess. I'd forget my manners too if I had that thing coming at me.

"There's more light over there," Des says, pointing.

We clamber over the lattice of pipes to the spot. There turns out to be a big hole in the floor—ceiling?—through which I can see a stainless steel countertop and not much else. I don't hear anything down there, aside from a faint buzzing.

"Works for me," Felicity shrugs.

I nod. Des goes first, hugging the pipe and letting her legs down carefully. When nothing rips them off, she drops down, landing on the counter with impressive grace. Felicity's clumsier, but lighter, and manages to land almost as quietly. I make it to the hanging-from-the-pipe stage without incident, but my arms give out almost instantly and I land hard on my bitten leg. I have to clap a hand over my own mouth to keep from yelling.

"Are you okay?" Felicity whispers.

"I'd like to say yes," I say helplessly. "But I don't think so."

We climb down to the floor. The room is a workshop, dusty and dark, except the flickering red lights in cages on the wall here and there.

"Uh-oh," Des mutters, pointing to a workstation on the far side of the room. A laptop is open and running, a soldering iron plugged in next to a half-assembled circuitboard. We're not alone in here.

I look around for a way out, but there's some kind of trap rigged at the main doors. No way we can get back up into the ceiling fast enough, not to mention quietly. There's a little door open in the back of the room, but we've barely taken a step toward it when there'd a loud _thud_ and a stream of curses from inside. The voice is male and older than us, and it's… weird. Synthesized?

We exchange glances. We could probably take one older boy between the three of us, but what if there's not just one of him? What if he's armed?

Felicity points to a pile of broken equipment in the corner, raising an eyebrow. Des and I nod and we tiptoe behind it. Unless the Gamemakers do something to blow our cover, we can just wait it out, or at least watch for long enough to see what we're up against.

A tall figure emerges from the back room. For a second I see what looks like glowing red eyes and almost have a heart attack, but then I realize he's wearing a gas mask that's reflecting the light. He looks around—I don't know what he's looking for—and pulls the mask off, looping it onto his belt.

The Five boy. I should've known, I guess. Usually Threes and Fives are the only ones with that kind of technical knowledge; Des is an anomaly. And this year's Threes aren't exactly rocket scientists.

We could fight him, but he's too well-armed. We exchange glances with each other again and silently agree to wait it out. My leg burns, but it's not bleeding too much. I can wait.

Music. For a second it's too surreal for me to register what I'm hearing, but it's true: the boy is playing music. He must've found it on the computer.

Well. Okay. I guess I don't mind music while I'm working, but honestly, is this a good time?

_"__Every boy in here with me got that smoke, and every girl in here gotta look me up and down…"_

I risk a glance over the top of whatever it is we're hiding behind. He's dancing, lip-synching into a vial of who-knows-what. Is he for real? It's the kind of dancing that would make your parents yell at you, too. He hip-swings to the next counter over, grabs some little metal doohickies, and sashays back.

_"__Drop the bass, mane the bass, get lower…"_

He does in fact get lower. I glance at my allies. Des looks horrified. Felicity is definitely feeling some kind of way, but I can't fathom what that way might be. As for me, well… I don't know. I've given up on trying to make sense of anything. Better that he's distracted, I guess, given how many guns he's carrying, and the noise will help conceal it if one of us sneezes or something.

So now we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The only sign of time passing is the occasional yelp and curse as the boy presumably burns himself on the soldering iron. I think Des is falling asleep. Felicity's staring into space, twirling a strand of ashy blond hair around her finger, her lips moving like she's talking to herself. Dealing with the pain in my leg pretty much occupies me. It's getting worse by the minute.

There's a _click _like a battery being connected.

"Oh, _hell_ yes_. _I'm so good," the boy says to himself.

Yeah. Good for you, Sparkles. Go be cocky somewhere else, please.

To my immense delight, he complies. There's some rustling and muttering from near the doors, then the sound of them opening, and then he's gone.

We give him a minute. No sign of him coming back.

"How's your leg?" Felicity asks.

"I think not that good." I clamber onto a counter near one of the lights and unlace my boot carefully, pulling it off and rolling my jeans up.

Oh.

The red light makes it hard to tell exactly what's going on, but the wound is deeper than I thought. That's not the worst part. The skin around it is dark and mottled. I think there's something coming out of it that's not blood. It smells bad.

"Oh, dear," Felicity says.

"Oh, no," Des adds.

I chew my lip. "Now what?"

**Ash Lytton, District One, 17**

"The 'gadget' you mentioned, though," Jaiven says. "You said it was making a clicking noise?"

"I think it might've been a Geiger counter, if that's what you're asking," Amaris shrugs. "No way in hell I'm going back down there, though."

"It's right next to the door."

"I don't care. You didn't see this thing."

"I believe you, but I think radiation detection is ultimately what will win these Games. Bet you anything the levels'll start going up. Gamemakers love that kind of thing. All your training doesn't matter if you're feverish and throwing up."

"It also doesn't matter if I get my head ripped off by the Thing," Amaris points out.

"No one's getting their head ripped off. It really is right by the door?"

"Yep."

Jaiven nods decisively. "Okay. Ash, you come with me today. Woohyun goes with Amaris. Merona and Amelia can stay here."

"Ugh," Amaris says.

"You're no prize either, darling," Woohyun snaps back.

Amaris tosses her hair. "The Capitol seems to think otherwise."

"Yeah, I wouldn't be bragging about that," I warn. "You know what happens to Victors they take a shine to."

"Huh?" Amaris says. "What happens?"

Amelia and I exchange glances. I guess that's more common knowledge in District One than Four.

"Um," Amelia says.

"Uhhh…" I add.

Amaris rolls her eyes. "Whatever. C'mon, princess," she snaps at Woohyun. "Let's move out, I haven't killed anyone all day."

"You just woke up."

"What's your point?"

"You're an idiot."

"You're ugly."

"Your mom is ugly."

"Your mom is uglier."

"My mom has an eating disorder, you heartless bitch."

Their voices fade out down the hallway. Jaiven takes a deep breath and looks at me. "Ready to go?"

"Sure."

We follow the directions the girls gave us. Soon we're at the spot they described, a heavy door at the bottom of a flight of stairs. And suddenly I'm having second thoughts about this. Do I really want to face down something that could shake them up that badly? There has to be a way of getting a Geiger counter that doesn't involve meeting something that sent Amaris and Merona running for their lives.

And that's just the rational side of it. My lizard brain is one hundred percent sure this is a bad idea. There's something bad here. Really bad. I don't know how I know it, but I do.

"Jaiven…"

"Don't you start," he sighs.

I scowl. I can't let him be braver than me. But…

Jaiven pulls the door open a crack. I flinch enough for him to give me a Look. Nothing else moves.

We peer into the room. He's acting cool, but I can tell my paranoia is making him paranoid. Still nothing. Concrete floor, leaking drums of goop. Just the usual. And, sure enough, on a little metal table a few yards away, a clicking tangle of wires.

"Hold the door open," Jaiven says quietly. He steps into the room, tense, sword in one hand, gun in the other. Still nothing. I keep watch, plus the occasional glance over my shoulder up the staircase. No sign of movement anywhere.

Jaiven reaches the Geiger counter. He sheathes his sword and picks it up carefully. I relax a bit as he returns, keeping to the wall.

He's right in front of me when something black lashes down from above and wraps around his neck. It yanks him out of sight just as fast. I think I hear his neck snap. The Geiger counter hits the ground right in front of my feet, but I'm not taking the time to pick it up; I slam the door and run.

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

Why am I going along with this, again?

Oh, right, because Luther is terrifying and I'm scared to cross her. But, in some weird way, I'm also scared to leave her. If she's the worst thing in the Arena, and I'm her ally, what do I have to fear?

Well, her. But not for a while. I've pretty much accepted that I'm the Moran to her Moriarty, which is a blow to the ego, but also means she won't kill me anytime soon. Probably.

So here I am, crouching in the dark, waiting to ambush Ariel Sevasti. Luther's still in the booth. She's found her way into the intercom system and is terrorizing him with it, laughing and taunting him and giving wrong directions. I can see her in there, twenty feet away, cooing into the microphone with a delighted, predatory grin.

_"__Oh, don't go that way, you don't want to go that way," _her voice echoes somewhere down the tunnel._ "Or do you? I see a monster! Want me to tell you where? Would you believe me? It's so horrible!"_

Somehow she knows exactly what to say, when to lie and when to tell the truth, to drive him straight toward us. I can hear him stumbling and cursing his way here.

The plan is simple, but it works perfectly. Ariel stomps into the intersection of the two tunnels, pistol drawn. He glances right and sees Luther in the lit security booth. I thought this was a huge gamble on her part—what if he just started shooting then and there?—but when she looks up and smiles, he reacts just like she said he would, immediately realizing he's walked into a trap and trying to run back the way he came.

But I've already tightened the tripwire behind him. He falls on his face, juggling the pistol, and I'm on him before he can figure out which end is up, grabbing his wrists and cuffing them behind his back. My weight is more than enough to hold him down. I've never felt so much like an evil henchwoman in my life.

It's not so bad a feeling, in a weird way. I won't kill him, but I could. Just like that. It's weird to realize that I'm one of the more dangerous people in here, albeit under Luther's direction.

She strolls up just as I'm confiscating all of his various guns and knives.

"You know, I could've just chucked an axe at him," I remark. "What's the point of this?"

"We're not killing him."

Ariel tenses. I don't blame him.

"We're not?" I ask.

"Of course not. I'm not done with him yet."

"Uh… what?"

She yanks his mask off, throwing it on top of his weapons, then pulls something from his coat pocket. A tangle of wires with a light that blinks a few times a second. "Ooh, nice. Is this what you were building?"

"Don't fucking touch me," he growls into the cement.

Luther ruffles his hair pointedly. I can't see his face, but I swear I can feel the hatred radiating off of him. This is… tense, to say the least. I guess I'll just continue silently sitting here on his back? I feel like an awkward third wheel, only instead of a date it's… whatever the hell this is.

Good lord, though, even the back of his neck is attractive. Why am I _thinking _about that?

"Look, what the fuck do you want?" he snaps.

"This stuff, mostly," Luther shrugs, gesturing at the pile of guns and knives and so on. "But since we've got you…"

"Luther, I swear on the scientific method I am going to fucking destroy you."

"_Since_ we've got you," she insists, like he hasn't even spoken. "We might as well give the Capitol some entertainment. That's what the Games are all about, after all."

"You're out of your goddamn mind," he says in disbelief. "Are you for real or are you some comic book villain who just-?"

"I think you know I'm very real, darling."

"Don't call me that, bitch."

"Okay, whore."

I'm tempted to stare at the ceiling and start whistling.

Ariel takes a shaky breath, like he's barely holding it together. "You better kill me before I get you," he hisses.

"_Get _me?" Luther repeats. "Not kill? I'm intrigued, what does that mean?"

He doesn't answer.

She smiles like a shark. "Not going to sink to my level, are you? You've got morals. Right? Speaking of which, whose blood is that you're covered in?"

"Look, can you just do whatever you've got in mind so we can both get on with our day?" he sighs.

"If you insist. Kaya?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This evil henchwoman thing is really going too far. But I do it anyway, dragging him to his feet by his wrists. He doesn't even try to run. Maybe he'd be faster usually, but no one's quick with their hands cuffed behind their back.

Luther gestures at the lattice of bars across the tunnel opposite the security station. The far side of them is too dark to see anything. She holds a pistol against his jaw delicately as I undo one of the cuffs, slip the chain around the bar, and clip it shut again.

He blinks. "Is this it?"

"Well, there's this," Luther says, pulling a metal box from her pocket and plucking a silvery little cylinder from it.

"What is it?"

"I don't know," she says cheerfully, holding it near the Geiger counter. The little flashing light goes crazy. "But I don't think it's very good for you."

Ariel turns pale. "Luther–"

Luther drops the cylinder down his boot. "There. Far from the most radiation-sensitive part of you, right? Only so much they can show on TV, after all. And I'm sure you can get it out eventually. It'll just take a bit of… dancing."

If looks could kill.

Luther smiles and plants a delicate kiss on the tip of his nose. He snarls and tries to headbutt her in the face, but isn't quick enough.

"So there's that," she goes on. "And there's this."

Even I almost have a heart attack when she suddenly raises the gun again, the muzzle right in Ariel's face. He chokes on his breath.

"Oh, wait, no. Before that, one more thing." She pulls a scrap of cloth from her pocket and blindfolds him.

"Really?" he mutters. "What the fuck is this?"

"I've got my reasons. Remember this?" Luther smiles, shoving the gun against his jaw again and forcing his head back.

"… Yeah, I remember that."

_Bang._

Ariel half-collapses. For a second I think she's killed him. From the look on his face, Ariel thinks the same.

"W-Why did you…?" he gasps.

I could ask the same question. What was the point of that, firing through the bars over his head? Now anyone nearby knows where we are.

"Shh," Luther says softly. "Listen, darling. I did that so you could hear better."

He opens his mouth to protest the pet name, but he must forget about it when he hears the same thing I do. Something moving in the darkness behind him. He tries to twist around to look at it, but of course he can't see anything anyway.

But I can. Luther shines a flashlight through the bars, presumably for my edification. There are pale, black-eyed monsters slinking around out there. Prowling closer.

"Watch your hands," Luther advises.

Ariel jerks away from the bars with a yelp, teeth snapping right where his fingers were a moment before.

"Luther…"

"What?"

He gulps and grits his teeth, then yelps when a pale arm wraps around his neck and pulls him back against the bars. The monsters mostly can't bite him, but he'll have a hard time keeping them from getting his hands. If they're smart enough to grab the chain of the handcuffs and pull his arms through… yikes.

"I've seen a few out here, too," Luther remarks offhandedly, gathering up our stuff and his. "So no loud noises, I guess."

Ariel is trying to stay calm, but he's practically hyperventilating. "Luther, come on, this is…"

"I'm leaving the keys on a nail on this wall right over here. If anyone comes by, you can ask them for help. You're good at convincing people to help you, right?"

"What did I _do?" _he protests. His voice sounds about to crack. "What the hell did I ever fucking do to you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Bye."

"Luther!"

"Shh, no loud noises, remember?"

I pick up the rest of our stuff and follow her down the tunnel, stepping over the tripwire carefully. I do feel guilty, but his death can't be that much worse than anyone else's will be. Right? Besides, he's not so innocent himself; there was blood on his face from whoever _he _killed.

"Why did you do that?" I ask once we're out of earshot.

"He'll be fine. He's too much of a crowd favorite to die on day two. The Gamemakers will get him out of it somehow even, if he can't get out himself."

"Huh. Why not kill him, then?"

She smiles. "Because if there's one thing they like more than Ariel, it's Ariel hurt or scared. As long as I deliver that, _I'm _a crowd favorite. They love to hate me, I'm sure, but they love what I do."

"That's pretty messed up."

"I didn't make the game," she shrugs. "I'm just playing it as well as I know how. If he can use his looks, so can I. Besides, he's more fun if he's angry."

"… Fun?"

She shrugs.

I don't think I'll ever understand Luther, except one thing: whenever it seems like she can't get any weirder and scarier, she does.

"Damn," she sighs. "I should've taken his coat. Oh well. Next time."

Case in point.

**Didn't see that coming, didja, sunshine? Jaiven, I mean? Never forget to look up. :D**


	35. Where Is Everyone

**The theme song of this chapter is Yakety Sax.**

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

Atlas is one quiet dude. Was he this gloomy during training and stuff? But he's decently big and doesn't seem to have any immediate plans to murder me, so I'm not going to give him a hard time for bringing down the mood. Not that I'm so cheerful myself; I'm hungry, thirsty, and cold, plus there's the perpetual threat of death. Not the best.

And Jukai. It doesn't help anyone for me to beat myself up about it and I know it, but I can't help thinking it's my fault he's dead. If I'd taken the half-second to calm down, look around, and figure out what was going on, we could've been down those hatches before anyone else. But no, I had to run off in completely the wrong direction, and he, earnest, well-meaning halfwit that he is, stood there yelling after me instead of getting the hell out of there and hoping I'd figure it out on my own.

I'm still amazed I didn't get trapped out there. I don't think Reyna is _evil, _exactly, but I have no doubt that she believes I deserve to die. Me and everyone else in here, except her.

I grilled her about it on the train. Insisted that I'd never done anything wrong, certainly nothing to warrant this, so how could she justify my death? What about that thirteen-year-old girl, or the little Eleven boy? But she wouldn't budge. The Capitol is good, therefore if it says we deserve to die, we must deserve to die. If the Capitol kills only those who deserve to die, it must be good.

I pointed out that it was the most circular logic in the history of the universe. She glared at me so hard I thought she'd toss me out the window.

Then, of course, I asked if she thought _she _deserved to die. She just shrugged and said she didn't think so, but if she _did _die, it must mean she'd done something wrong and just not known about it. I asked if you could really deserve death for a crime you could commit without even knowing about it. She rolled her eyes and patiently explained, again, that the Capitol knows exactly what it's doing. I gave up right around then.

Atlas and I have been wandering around the hallways of this floor pretty much since we ran into each other, except when we stopped in one of the vault thingies to sleep. That's the thing: you either sleep in the open, or you corner yourself. And I kept expecting the door to just close on its own, sealing us in there. I'm sure the Gamemakers could've done it if they wanted. I just had to promise myself they wouldn't kill us off in such as "boring" way.

This whole place is beyond claustrophobic. I really, really don't want to die down here. I at least wish I'd gotten one last look at a clear sky the night before, and known to appreciate it.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Atlas says.

"This floor has a lot of research stuff, it seems like. I'm hoping there's a jug of distilled water or whatever around here. Tell me if you see any labs."

"I can barely see anything."

We finally found our way into a slightly better-lit area of the Arena. Slightly. Most of the lights are burned out, and the ones still working are really struggling for it.

"Where are we?"

"Four floors down. The ladder I took is maybe half a mile in that direction," I say, pointing. "Dunno where you came from."

"How do you know that?"

"I dunno. Just guessing, I guess. But I think I passed three hatches in the wall on the way down the ladder, so I'm assuming those were all floors."

"Big Arena, then. Guess that explains it. I was about to ask, where _is _everyone?"

Right on cue, Reyna comes flying out of the darkness straight at me, even more crazy-eyed than usual, holding a chunk of rock. Before I can do much more than raise my arm, she crashes into me. I scramble to get my bearings back and dodge the inevitable blow.

It doesn't come. She sprints away down the tunnel.

I stay on the ground where I landed, square on my rear. "… What?"

"Get up," Atlas says, looking in the direction she came from uneasily. "She was running from something."

I stumble to my feet. "I don't hear– Oh, there it is. Time to go."

We take off after Reyna. And soon we find everyone.

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

I know as soon as I see Ash's face that Jaiven is dead. It hits me harder than I expected. I considered him a friend, and that's on top of the nasty feeling that his death is bad news for me. All of us, really. He held us together. Now what?

"What was it?" I ask.

Ash gulps. "I don't know. I guess the thing the girls saw."

"Did you see it?"

"Just… it was black. Reached down and grabbed him and… gone."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Told you," Merona mutters.

I expect Ash to give her a dirty look, but he just shakes his head. "I know. I told him not to go in. It just… felt like a bad idea."

"Well, now we know," she says brightly. "Hopefully a few more tributes will go down there and get eaten, or dismembered, or whatever."

"Hopefully no one will let it _out," _I say, more to myself than them, but both of them tense.

"You think it might come out?" Merona says slowly.

"How should I know? I… never mind," I sigh.

We sit around in awkward silence. No one suggests leaving, because that would mean leaving someone alone. We'll have to figure out a new strategy now that we've only got two groups to work with. I still can't wrap my mind around it; I keep expecting him to walk in the door. What is it, day two? And the leader of the Careers dead. It's a game changer, that's for sure.

The Fours clatter in an hour or so later. Amaris is waving something big and bulky around, almost smacking Woohyun with it every few seconds. "What in the living fuckity is this?" she rants.

Merona sits up. "What?" she yawns.

"This! We were walking and it fell on me!"

Merona scoots over to study the doll, frowning and taking a good look at its insane grin. "Wow, that's just… not necessary."

"Where's Jaiven?"

"Dead," Merona says brightly.

Amaris blinks. "Wait, for real?"

"For real. The Thing got him when he went after the Geiger counter."

"I knew it. See? What did I say?" Amaris sniffs.

Woohyun rolls his eyes. "Everything, probably."

"Fight me, bitch."

Ash is still on the ground, looking thoroughly defeated. Merona seems about to laugh. I guess this is my problem now. I'm going to take a leaf out of the Jaiven book of leadership and leave the Fours alone.

Scheduling, I realize, is going to be a lot more complicated. But if I leave three people here, two can sleep while the third takes watch. I'm banking on the sleepers getting up fast enough to help if something happens, and the guard not murdering them. Everyone but Woohyun has trained to go from fast asleep to fighting in two seconds, but I'm not so confident about the non-murder part. Best we can do, though.

"Ash, are you good to go out again? The other three can switch off sleeping and keeping watch."

Ash grabs his crossbow. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… needed a minute there."

"Good. Let's go hunt, then."

Ash isn't such a bad companion. He's sane enough, anyway, and I trust his abilities in a fight, but I miss the quiet conversations with Jaiven. I'm sure the Capitol gossiped about us plenty, but it wasn't like that. He was an interesting, smart, good guy, that's all.

We turn a corner and Ash holds out a hand. I stop, keeping silent until I see what he sees. A silhouetted figure standing just beyond a lattice of bars. Ash raises the crossbow, aims, and fires. An almighty screech echoes through the tunnel and the figure doubles over.

Ash makes a perfect _oh shit _face. "Was that…?"

"I think maybe…?" I say.

"_You assholes!" _the figure screams.

Yep. That's Ariel, all right.

"Oops," Ash says guiltily.

We run up the tunnel. Ariel is still silhouetted, but in the blue light I see something glistening on his leg. I think the bolt is stuck in his thigh. He might live if it missed the artery. Maybe.

"Don't pull it out!" I yell as I run.

"I _c-can't_ pull it out, I-I'm cuffed to the…" He trails off with a sharp gasp. "Oh, no."

"What is it?"

"Amelia."

It's the low, tight tone that means something is imminently, disastrously wrong. I run faster. And then faster still when I see the tall, bony silhouettes prowling toward him, on his side of the bars. They're attracted to sound. Shit.

_"__Amelia!" _he screams, cowering away from the closest one.

The first monster and I reach him at the same time. I ram my sword through the bars, taking the monster through the skull, its teeth an inch from his throat. They're awfully fragile, I observe, although still horrifying. The second monster falls to Ash's bolt, but more are coming.

"How many more do you have?" I ask.

"Ten."

"Try to find a way around," I say hurriedly, lunging to stab another monster.

"And do what? He's still cuffed."

"T-There's a key," Ariel grits out. "On a nail on the wall."

Ash frowns and takes aim again. "Why the hell did whoever it was leave the–?"

"_Go, _Ash."

He huffs, nods, and takes off into the darkness. I wonder if he'll ever come back.

I finally remember I have guns, which makes this a little easier. Ariel squeaks and goes limp at the first shot. Whoops. Guess I should've warned him. I barely catch him before he falls far enough to pull the cuffs taut and break his wrists, wrapping an arm around his chest and holding the monsters off with the other. How long has he been here? His coat is unbuttoned, and this is the coldest part of the Arena I've been in so far. I feel no body heat whatsoever, which could mean his clothes are well insulated, or that he's closer to dead than I thought.

The monsters are getting more careful. There are maybe eight of them by now, skulking around where I can't quite get a clear shot at them.

"Motherfucker," Ariel says weakly. Not quite dead, then. Just really jumpy. Still, I've never seen anyone react like that to a gunshot.

And _where _is Ash?

Like they've planned it, half the monsters lunge at once. Ariel screams. I have no choice but to drop him and draw my sword again, shooting with one hand and stabbing with the other. Lucky for him I'm coordinated. I leave the sword and impaled monster where they are, providing something like a buffer on his left. A scary-looking buffer, unfortunately, frozen with its teeth right in front of his nose.

"… Fuck," he squeaks, staring into its black-hole eyes.

"Sorry."

"D-Don't apologize. You're my favorite person right now."

Aw.

Then, as often happens in the Hunger Games, things start to happen very quickly.

A pretty big, older girl—I think District Six—comes flying into the intersection from the tunnel to the right. Literally flying, tripping over something and soaring through the air before crashing headlong into a monster.

"Careful," Ariel advises dreamily. Getting a little loopy from blood loss, I guess.

The girl makes a choked noise and whomps the monster in the face with a rock she was carrying, scrambling to her feet.

I point the gun at her. "Toss me those and I won't kill you," I say, pointing at the keys hanging from the nail, just out of my reach.

The girl stares at me. Before she can respond, two boys come out of nowhere and wipe out on the tripwire. One just faceplants, but the other unintentionally tackles the girl to the ground. Even the monsters look confused.

"Can… can someone hand me the keys, though? Please?" I say, waving the gun helplessly.

The monsters remember they're monsters and attack. One of the boys has a knife and goes to work on them in no uncertain terms. The unarmed one sort of dances in a circle, dodging a snapping monster. The girl is just standing there with her rock, wide-eyed, her expression somewhere between anger and total confusion.

Suddenly, Fenris.

The wolfman arrives on the scene like a bowling ball to the end of the lane. Monsters and tributes go flying. Ariel sighs dreamily, then screams for the third time in as many minutes when a monster is somehow launched from the fray directly at him. I barely pull myself together in time to shoot it, shattering its skull. Nothing I can do to stop it from hitting him, though; its momentum sends it straight into his gut. It hits the crossbow bolt still lodged in his leg as it falls. This time he just gasps. I don't have to see the new flow of blood; I can smell it.

Should I shoot? Who should I shoot? I have no idea. If Ash gets lost, I need to convince someone to throw me the keys. Except Ariel will still be stuck over there; there's no way he can walk. Might as well get them myself. So all I can do is keep him alive until either Ash gets here or the fight is over. Who's the biggest threat? The tributes are dangerous, but they're also killing the monsters, and I've only got so many bullets to hold them off from over here, so…?

I can't even tell what's going on at this point. The girl seems to be back-to-back with the dark-haired boy with the knife, even though I feel like they shouldn't be getting along. More monsters are flooding in from the tunnel across from me. Ariel is screaming something at the top of his lungs, seemingly just for the sake of adding to the chaos.

_Twang. _A monster falls with a crossbow bolt through its chest.

Ash sprints out of the tunnel opposite the tripwire. I can just hear the heroic music playing on TV sets all over Panem; he's even got the blond hair and roguish scars for it. All the other tributes but Fenris take that as their cue to vacate the premises. The girl hurdles the tripwire and flees back into the darkness, and the boys take off down the tunnel Ash came from. Fenris and Ash glance at each other and seem to arrive at a mutual understanding: monsters first, then we'll see. I contribute a few bullets to the mop-up effort. Soon the intersection is full of dead monster bodies, one big guy, one gigantic one, and one shivering skinny one.

Ash and Fenris face each other down. Fenris snarls and raises a length of pipe.

_Twang._

"Sorry," Ash shrugs, keeping the crossbow up warily. "Love and war, you know?"

Fenris stares at him for a second, perfectly still. I wait for him to fall. There's a crossbow bolt buried in his chest, after all.

He runs, sprinting after the other two boys.

"What the-?" Ash splutters. By the time it occurs to him to shoot again, Fenris is too far away; the shot misses him by a mile.

"Keys," I prompt him.

Ash stands there for a few more seconds with his jaw dropped, but then shakes himself out of it and tosses them to me.

"Hold him up," I say.

"I can stand," Ariel insists, then promptly collapses against Ash as soon as I let him go.

"If you say _anything, _I swear I will drop you," Ash mutters as he picks Ariel up and jogs into the tunnel. Hopefully he won't run into Fenris or the other two.

I circle around to meet them. "Ariel, you still alive?"

He cracks one eye open. "Still? Am I dying?"

I'm not sure what to say. He _might _not. But his skin is dead pale and sweaty despite his shivering, he's breathing way too fast, and his whole leg is soaked in blood. It's a miracle he's as lucid as he is.

"Um..."

"But I'm too beautiful to bleed out!" he wails.

… Then again, lucidity is relative.

"Okay. Calm down," I say in my best soft, nice voice. "Don't get your heart rate up. Oh, and whatever Amaris says or does, ignore her."

"I try to."

"Don't we all," Ash mutters.

**How things stand:**

**Amelia, Ash, Merona, Amaris, Woohyun, Ariel: base on Floor Five**

**Des, Castalia, Felicity: Floor Two**

**Atlas and Ted: Floor Two**

**Viss and Luka: Floor Three**

**Luther and Kaya: ?**

**Reyna: Floor Two**

**Fenris: Floor Two**

**Lillen: Floor Four**

**Caddis: ?**

**(The ?s aren't for dramatic effect, I just haven't decided yet.)**


	36. Spider Monkey

**Shoutout to GlimmerIcewood for the chapter title.**

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

"Luka?"

"Yes?"

"Stop beatboxing before I knock you out."

"You wouldn't knock me out. I'm too fuckin' adorable."

Viss sighs irritably. "Don't rub it in."

I make an honest effort to knock it off, channeling my energy into a jaunty little two-step instead. But I keep tripping over my own feet—the boots are kinda big—so I start tapping out a beat on the railing instead.

"Luka?"

"Yes?"

"You see that bottomless pit?"

I lean over the railing, taking a good look at the blackness below. "I do see it, yeah."

"How easily do you think I could throw you in there?"

"Uh… pretty easily, I bet."

"Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"I think I might. Hey, you hear something?"

She frowns. "Yeah."

It's a distant, muffled screech. Then, a few seconds later, what sounds suspiciously like a voice yelling _you assholes._

I blink. "Language."

"You've dropped at least five f-bombs within the last five minutes."

"Yeah, well."

At first I think it's coming from the pit, but after a second I realize it's echoing from the tunnel across the pit from us a floor down. There's more screaming. And then some more. Not scared, pained screaming. More just a general clamor, like a crowd of drunk Peacekeepers trying to arrest each other after their shifts.

Huh.

I glance up and jump a little when I find what looks like the silhouette of someone looking down from two floors up. I squint. Yep, definitely a person. I give a little half-wave, figuring they'll see it if they already saw me, but it won't get their attention if not.

There's a pause, then the person waves back bemusedly. I think I can make out Asian features. The Four boy.

"Hey, Viss, I know where the Careers are."

"Where?"

"Right there."

She swears and whips out a knife before realizing where I'm pointing. "Oh."

"Hey!" the Four guy calls down.

"Hello," I yell back cheerfully. "How are-? Mmph," I sigh as Viss claps a hand over my mouth.

"The monsters are attracted to sound," she hisses.

"Aw, c'mon, we can totally take monsters."

"Don't tempt the Gamemakers."

Another figure leans over the edge of the top floor, this one with long red hair. "Who's…? Oh."

I give her a friendly wave.

"C'mon," Viss mutters, tugging me away from the railing. "We need to go be somewhere else. They might come down here."

"Oh. Hmm. Yeah. Have we gone in that tunnel yet? That one looks nice."

She gives me a long, unreadable look. "Okay."

"It does," I say defensively. "The concrete is so smooth. The lights almost work, kinda. Some nice pipes up there. What a nice shade of grey they're painted. What more can you ask for?"

"Shh," Viss cuts me off, snapping into ninja mode again. I glance around dubiously. I didn't hear anything, but I'll take her word for it.

She keeps walking.

"Nothing?"

"Can't tell which direction it was from, so we might as well go this way. But it was something."

"Oh."

Something hits me on the top of the head. Something with metal parts heavy enough to make a solid _clunk _while doing it.

"Ow," I mutter, leaning down to pick the thing up. It's a… doll? Wearing a bow. What?

There's a sound above me like a power tool rasping to life. Viss's eyes widen. Uh-oh.

Something lands on my shoulders like a ton of bricks, knocking me to the ground on my face and cracking my head against the concrete. I see a flash of blond hair, and… a power drill. It's cordless. Technology is amazing these days; I didn't know they made those. I should get one for Dad.

"I never said you could touch Flounder," a crazy voice whispers in my ear. Caddis. The sound of the drill get a tiny bit quieter, like he's raising it to stab me with. I should do something, but my muscles won't listen.

I vaguely register Viss charging, head down, teeth bared. She's not quite fast enough. There's split second of burning pain on my shoulder blade, then Viss hits Caddis like a freight train and the drill rips down my back. Well, she tried.

It doesn't hurt. That'll come, I'm sure. I spend a few seconds lying there in shock before it sinks in that I'm not dead.

Viss yells. I turn to find her and Caddis wrestling down the hallway. He's got his teeth around her knife wrist. She has a hand on the power drill, but he's got two. The situation plays out in my head: their tumble ending with Viss on her back, Caddis with the drill over her heart, with the perfect leverage to drive it down between her ribs.

The emotion I feel is a new one. It's not quite fear or anger. More of a pure, concentrated, all-consuming impulse of _absolutely not._

I run at him, forgetting everything but the situation at hand. Now Caddis is kneeling, crouched over her, raising the drill. They're too low for me to tackle him off her. He'd have plenty of time to kill her before I could get the drill away from him. So I do the only thing I can: I throw myself to the ground next to them and use my momentum to stab him in the gut hard enough to lift him off the ground.

Caddis slumps to the side. Viss is left holding the still-running drill, its tip an inch from her chest. Her expression is as blank as ever.

I scramble around her to Caddis, my heart sinking. I didn't just stab him. I _cut him open_. His wide grey eyes are looking right through me.

"C-Caddis?" I say shakily.

Viss turns the drill off. The hallway is suffocatingly quite without it. "Luka…"

"No, I didn't _mean _to," I protest. "I just…"

Caddis is shivering. There's blood on his lips. He looks scared. He's dying, bleeding out, his lungs shutting down, and it's my fault. I reached into those systems that made him go and tore them apart and soon his brain is going to run out of oxygen and shut down and his consciousness will be gone forever and it's all my fault. He's no better than me and I just… made him go away. Stop being.

"I'm sorry, Caddis, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, please don't… Caddis, no, no no no no _please_–" My voice cracks.

I feel sick. I can't stand how scared and alone he looks. I scramble across the hallway for the doll and tuck it into his arms.

"There's Flounder, you've got Flounder back, okay? I'm sorry, Caddis, I'm so, so sorry."

"Luka, he's dead."

"But…"

"I know you didn't mean to, okay?" she says quietly. "It's not your fault. Come here."

"I can't just–"

"You have to leave him. We're going in this room, okay? So I can look at your back."

I don't move, but Viss grabs me and hauls me to my feet. Much more gently than usual, like she'd rather hug me than push me around. I vaguely register myself being steered into a little room off the hallway, I think storage or something.

It hits me all at once that I've lost quite a bit of blood and I think I've got a concussion. I stare at the wall numbly as Viss works my jacket and shirt off.

I killed someone. I _murdered _someone.

It's freezing and I start shivering instantly. Viss spreads her own coat on the concrete floor and guides me onto it. She covers as much bare skin as she can with my shirt and coat, but the cut runs from one shoulder to the opposite hip. My shoulder just feels cold. I think it's cut to the bone. The rest isn't deep, but it's torn and jagged, and now the pain is starting to hit me and I might scream.

"This will hurt," Viss warns. I smell antiseptic.

"It already hurts."

"It'll hurt more."

It does. She has to hold me down for a second. I don't bother trying to be tough and stoic; I'm long since past that point. This hurts more than anything that's ever happened to me, which is saying something, and _I killed someone._

"It's okay," Viss says, her voice soft, but as godawfully flat as ever. Suddenly I can't stand it. I need her to not be a robot for five fucking minutes so she can… I'm not sure what, exactly. Witness this. So someone really, truly understands that all I wanted was to stop her from dying. Not to kill anyone, just like _they _knew I would do, even though I never, ever, in my wildest nightmares, dreamed that they could make me. I thought at least I could die without blood on my hands. I thought I had control over that. Wrong. I'm all theirs. I am what they say I am and I'm starting to think I'd rather be dead.

My vision is blurry again. Both tears and injuries, I think. Without really meaning to, I grab Viss's hand. Now both of our hands are bloody. How fucking poetic.

"He wasn't going to win," she says as she drips antiseptic onto what feels like my exposed shoulder blade. "And he died within thirty seconds. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You don't care." It's a statement, not an accusation.

"About you?"

"You don't care he's dead. Do you?"

She doesn't even hesitate. "I'm happy he's dead. He had to die. I wish you hadn't been the one to kill him, because it made you sad, and I don't want you to be sad. That's how I feel about this."

"That's it?"

"That's it," she says firmly, pulling a roll of gauze from the backpack, but there's something false in her voice.

"No, it isn't."

As soon as I look up, I regret saying it. I forgot something from the Reaping: Viss isn't emotionless. She's angry. And how she was at the Reaping is nothing compared to now. It's pent-up, only visible in the tightness of her jaw and something in her eyes, but I think she could snap my spine with her bare hands right now.

I can't help flinching a little. "I'm sorry, I just–"

She pulls her hand from mine. There's a blur of movement and her teeth flash again.

_Thud._

I shift so I can lift my head in the other direction. Her knife is buried in a plastic box on the shelf. When I look back at Viss, for a second I think she's about to cry, but then her face goes neutral again.

"… Sorry," I say again. "I didn't mean to…"

She takes a deep, shaky breath, then shakes her head. "No, I'm not mad at you. Sorry for… yeah."

"It's okay."

Viss bites her lip and returns her attention to my back, pressing harder than I think she meant to. I can't bite back a gasp.

"Sorry!"

"I'm okay."

She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers through my hair. For a second I'm just stunned. It's the most affectionate thing she's done, by an order of magnitude. She managed to hold me at a distance even that night on the train, inscrutable and above me somehow, denying me anything like trust. She wouldn't let me kiss her.

So I'll take this. I'll _cling _to this.

"I'm really sorry," she says, almost too quietly to hear. "That you had to do that for me."

"I'd do it again."

"… Thanks."

She dabs at my back with one hand, keeping her free one in my hair. My mind goes back to Caddis as soon as we stop talking, but it helps a little. I killed him, but I did it for her. I'm the Capitol's toy, but I'm not alone.

I'm at that point of dizziness and choked, ragged breathing and blurry vision where I don't know whether I'm crying or not. I don't care. Maybe it'll help Caddis's family to know I feel so, so beyond awful about this. Maybe they'll just be happy I'm in _some _kind of pain, mental or physical, and they can have that, too.

At some point I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, the cut is totally bandaged and my coat is draped over me like a blanket. Viss is curled up against the wall, shivering in her sleep.

My coat is ripped up pretty badly, so I lay it on the ground instead of Viss's, as close to her as I can get it. Somehow I manage to tug her onto it without her murdering me in her sleep. I pull her coat over both of us. Hopefully she'd consider the fact that I can't get my shirt on without messing up the bandages sufficient reason to curl up against her. I'm freezing.

If something attacks us, we're dead. I'm too tired to care. I think I've done all the caring I can do in one day.

**Oh, dear, I gave myself emotions with this one.**


	37. The Pit

**This is happening at roughly the same time as the Yakety Sax incident, fyi. Also, warning for blood and gore and all that, although honestly if you hate blood I'm not sure what you're doing reading an M-rated Hunger Games fic. :P**

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

"We have to do something," I say as we plod up the tunnel.

Felicity blinks. "Okay. Something specific you had in mind?"

"Just… something. We need sponsors. That's the only way we're going to get medicine."

"Nothing dangerous," Castalia says quietly. She's limping badly, but not complaining.

"It'll have to be. That's all they're interested in. Plus, I mean… we're not going to win the Games by hiding. They haven't let that happen in decades."

_We, _I think wryly. _We _aren't going to win the Games, period, but no one says that out loud.

Castalia gives me an appalled look. "Are you saying we should try to kill someone?"

I shrug, because that's exactly what I'm saying, but I don't want to say it out loud.

"But…"

"I think she's right," Felicity breaks in. "We have to play the game, or they'll take us out of it. We've barely even got weapons, though."

Finding food in the Arena turns out to be pretty easy—there are packets of preserved fruit and stuff scattered around—but weapons are trickier. Real weapons, anyway. There's plenty of stuff to improvise with. Felicity's got a wrench from the lab, Castalia found a ring stand with a sharp, heavy base, and I've got a piece of metal pipe. A monster attacked us right after we left the lab and we managed to whomp it to death, but I'm not sure a person will go down as easily.

"Des, I can't kill an innocent person," Castalia says.

"What if they're not innocent?"

Now it's Felicity's turn to balk. "What, are you saying we should go after the Careers?"

"Well… it'd be really dangerous. But it would get the Capitol's attention, and it's the last thing the Careers would expect."

"Des. They've got _guns."_

I point over her shoulder. "So do we."

"What…?"

Castalia and Felicity spin around to see what I just noticed: three pistols, just lying there on the concrete.

Felicity frowns. "Those weren't there before. Right?"

"I don't think so."

"No parachutes in this Arena, I guess… huh."

"That means they want us to do it," I point out, picking up one of the pistols.

"Just because they want us to doesn't mean we should."

"They're sending us a pretty clear message. Do it, and they'll give us the medicine. And even if they don't, I bet the Careers have medical supplies."

Castalia winces. "That _still _doesn't mean we should."

"They won't appreciate it if we don't, though, now that I brought it up. Um… sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it," Felicity says, although something in her face tells me she actually thinks I should worry about it quite a bit. She takes a pistol and inspects it. "I think you're right, though. We've got no choice. Okay. So. Is that what we're doing, then?"

Castalia makes a noise along the lines of _eep._

"C'mon, Cas, we're not going to die," I say. "And I'm not doing nothing while you die, either."

She takes a deep breath. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Felicity fiddles with her pistol until she manages to pull the magazine out and slide it back in. So they're loaded, but we only get ten rounds each. She's frowning like she's crunching through an intense calculation, brown eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I think… I'm not doing this."

"What?"

"I'm leaving. Sorry."

I'm stunned. "But… what?"

"You're not going to beat them," she says, shaking her head. "Not even with guns. They're more alert than you. They're better shots. If you go up there, they're going to kill you."

"But Castalia will die if we don't," I say in disbelief. "Felicity, it's the right thing to do."

She won't meet my eyes. "Not if I want to survive."

Without another word, she turns and walks back the way we came. Castalia and I watch her go numbly. We could shoot her in the back, but we won't and she knows it. It's not until she's long gone that I realize she took the backpack Atlas left us.

Castalia looks like she might cry. "I-I didn't mean for…"

"What? You didn't do anything."

"But… we're only doing this because of me."

"You didn't exactly go out of your way to get bitten by a monster, though."

I can't believe I didn't see that coming. In retrospect, I should've known. Felicity's never been the one to go first into a dark tunnel or offer either of us the first sip from a new bottle of water. I trusted her way too much, assuming she'd risk her life for us just like we would for her. But I can't get angry. She's not a bad person. She never hurt us and I can tell she felt awful about leaving. She probably could've taken us by surprise and shot us both just now, but she didn't. She just wants to live, and she's doing her best to make that happen.

"Guess we might as well go," I say, handing Castalia the other pistol. "You know how to use that?"

"I went to the station in training," she says morosely. She closes her eyes and winces every step on the way up the stairs. It shores up my conviction that we have to do something and we have to do it now. My guess is that the Careers have left two people as guards. A two-on-two firefight is worse odds than I'd like, but it's not impossible, especially when they don't expect us. If we wait, Castalia won't be able to walk, and I'd have to leave her somewhere while I went alone.

We reach the top floor, where we heard the Careers' voices echoing down the pit a while ago. I take my best guess at the tunnel that leads to the center of the Arena.

"So we just run in and start shooting?" Castalia says.

"I think it's our best chance."

The doorway is up ahead, light spilling out from it, total darkness farther on. I have to resist the urge to rush this just because I hate the dark so much. I keep imagining noises from it, things moving…

We creep up to the doorway as quietly as we can. I don't hear anything. It's no guarantee, but maybe it means there's only one guard.

"Des…" Castalia whispers.

I know what she wants to say. What are the odds that we won't be shot dead as soon as we round that corner? Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

But it's all we can do. Either we get the Careers' first aid supplies, or we impress the sponsors enough for them to send medicine, or Castalia dies. Horribly. I don't want to watch the infection spread through her and I absolutely, positively don't want to put myself in the position of having to deal out a mercy kill. I'd rather run headfirst into the Careers than do that.

"We'll be okay," I whisper back.

Castalia gulps and nods. We clasp hands for a second, then straighten up, glance at each other, and charge into the room.

Lights. Pit. Supplies. Boy. The Four boy, leaning against the wall half-asleep, his rifle across his lap. I realize in a split second that I don't have what it takes to kill him and there's no way Castalia does either.

"Push it away!" I yell at him, praying he'll do it. If he tries to point it at us, I _will _shoot him.

The boy's head snaps up, wide-eyed. He puts the rifle down slowly and slides it a few feet away. Closer than I'd like, but I'm not having him touch it again.

"Watch him," I mutter to Castalia. I snatch the rifle, then run over to their supplies and tear through them, searching for anything like a first aid kit.

"Des," Castalia's voice says. She sounds more sad than scared, but my heart sinks. Something in her tone tells me that it's all gone horribly wrong.

I look up slowly and find the beautiful blue eyes of the Two girl looking back at me. So I really _was _hearing something out there in the hallway. She's holding Castalia in front of her, gripping the wrist of her gun hand so the pistol is pointed at the wall. I can't shoot without hitting Castalia. But if she kills Castalia, I'll kill her.

She doesn't have a gun of her own, I note. I guess this isn't like most years where the Careers have unlimited supplies. They only have what they carried down here.

I risk a glance at the Four boy. He hasn't moved from the ground by the wall.

The Two girl smiles at me and starts dragging Castalia in the direction of the pit, still using her as a shield. Castalia is frozen. I'm not much better off.

"I'll shoot you," I warn. My hands are shaking so much I'm not sure I can make good on my threat even if I find the guts to pull the trigger. "Let her go and I promise I won't."

She laughs. "Mm, that's sweet. But…"

Something grabs my gun arm from behind. The Four boy.

"… No you won't," the Two girl smirks, and pushes Castalia into the pit.

_Bang. _I didn't mean to pull the trigger. I don't think I hit the boy, but he isn't holding me anymore. I sprint to the edge of the pit. Castalia's echoing scream drills into my head.

There's a distant splashing sound, muted, like a liquid much thicker than water. I think I see the slightest glimmer of light at the bottom of the pit, like the surface of something has been disturbed. Castalia's screams get louder and sharper, morphing from shock and fear to agony. I'm going to throw up. This can't be happening. I did this.

In some corner of my brain that isn't panicking, I see something else: two tall girls by the railing on the third floor. The shorter-haired one studies the blackness below for a moment, then looks up at me and smiles. I scramble away from the edge.

"Oh, wow," the Two girl says. "I didn't know _that _was how it worked."

I should shoot her. Right in her pretty face.

She looks up at me from across the pit, tilting her head. "So. Are you a killer?"

Maybe I am. Maybe I fucking am. I'm shaking with anger and shock. This time I remember to check on where the boy is. He's retreated back to the wall.

I raise the pistol. The girl raises her eyebrows.

If I pull this trigger and hit her, the bullet could split her skull. That beautiful face will become a bloody mess right in front of me. I'll see fragments of skull, with long red hair attached, tumble down into the pit. I'll see her brain before she tumbles headfirst over the edge. The boy might fight me and I'll have to kill him, too, but he won't fall in, so I'll be standing there with his dead body staring up at me.

Castalia is still screaming. A second later, she stops.

I can't be here any longer. I run away.

**Not a good day for District Nine, jeez. Also, yes, that was Kaya and Luther down there. So yes, Luther now knows that the pit is full of something nasty. So that's nice.**

**So if, hypothetically, the next chapter were to include two certain pretty boys making out in somewhat extensive detail… how would people feel about that? Given that romantic mood I set just now?**


	38. Conquest

**NA NA NA COME ON COME ON COME ON**

**I mean. Ahem. Actual Important Novel-Length A/N, because you saw the title and knew damn well what this chapter was gonna be:**

**I got five "yes" votes and a ton of abstentions, so the ayes have it. Incoming inevitable result of Woohyun and Ariel finally being alone in the same room. Which is to say, they make out. To put it lightly. It's pretty damn close to explicit, i.e technically no dicks but less-than-subtle implications of dicks, if that makes any sense. Also, if it wasn't already abundantly clear, they're both kinda kinky, so be prepared for that. It stops being plot/character-relevant once Ariel asks Woohyun about the scar, so stop reading there if it's not your thing. No reviews telling me I freaked you out; I warned you fair and square. Hint: if you flinched at the word "dick" just now, do not read this chapter. :P**

**It's in-character, okay? Bite me, I have a physics final tomorrow and I need some joy in my life and I'm not sorry. Besides, you who submitted the pretty boys, this is ****_your _****fault. You know who you are, goddammit. (Thank you. I love you. This was fun.)**

**Also, tw for Woohyun being an insensitive, politically incorrect jackass about sexual assault, as Woohyun is wont to do. Actually, both of them being insensitive, politically incorrect jackasses. The views expressed by characters are not necessarily those of the author. So uh, tw fatphobia/body image too, because Ariel's a petty son of a bitch. **

**Amy, if you're still reading this, I'm so sorry. Not really. But don't read this.**

**Woohyun Averi, District Four, 17**

"I'm hunting alone today," Amaris announces.

Everyone looks at Amelia to see how she'll react. She just frowns. "How come?"

"I feel like it."

Amelia considers that. "Whatever floats your boat. Merona and Ash can go together."

I think I spend more time on guard duty than off it, but I'm not going to argue. Fewer monsters on guard duty. Now and then one rolls in, but usually the real Career stuck with me takes care of it.

The hunters for the day roll out. I settle down by the wall, leaning against a backpack, wondering how this will play out. Clearly Ariel is trying to reel Amelia in. Little does he know he's in the company of a cockblocker extraordinaire.

I've got my work cut out for me. Amelia thinks she's holding him off, but it's obvious at a glance that he's got his claws in deep. She doesn't return any of his innuendo and barely reacts when he crashlands into her personal bubble. What she _does _do is much, much worse: get protective of him. I don't think she realizes she's doing it, but she glares at anyone who snaps at him and shoots him reassuring looks when he flinches at something.

He flinches at a lot of things. I don't think he did that before.

"Fuck," Ariel announces from where he's sprawled out on his back in the middle of the room.

Amelia glances up. "What?"

"You people want me to build you a Geiger counter, right? I mean, I guess maybe you just wanted me around for my stunning good looks and charming personality, but somehow I doubt it."

"Oh," Amelia says. "Yeah, a Geiger counter would be good."

"I need stuff, then."

"Make a list. I'll run it out to whoever I can catch. Woohyun, try to not let anything kill the two of you in the next five minutes, okay?" she instructs, grabbing her sword and gun. "None of that fancy stuff you and Merona did yesterday. Just shoot anyone who comes in."

I throw a sloppy salute and coax a few metallic clicking noises from my rifle. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

Ariel scribbles a long, complicated list on the back of some kind of wrapper. Amelia scans it, nods, and jogs out into the hallway.

"Make sure they don't forget the argon tube! The argon tube is super important!" he yells after her. "But don't touch the top drawer, I rigged it to explode!"

As soon as Amelia is out of sight, Ariel turns into a different person. No more puppy-dog eyes and exhaustion. Plenty of bedroom eyes and pent-up energy. He regards me thoughtfully, giving me a crooked smile that conveys his intentions more clearly than words ever could. "So. I've been wondering if I'd ever get to speak to you."

"No way the Gamemakers would let us out of here without _speaking _to each other."

"We can't disappoint the Gamemakers."

"We certainly can't."

That's the nice thing about people who've been around the block a time or a thousand. Very few wasted words. Clear intentions. I get closer slowly enough to give him time to object if I'm misreading the situation somehow, but he smirks and pulls me down by my coat.

The thing about the Gamemakers is a serious consideration, actually, although it's not like I'd have turned him down outside the Games. Giving the audience what they want to see is a damn good way of convincing the Gamemakers to keep us around. So we're kissing for our lives, I guess.

Only he really seems to be. I do this kind of thing because why the hell not, and he really is pretty, so… sure, don't mind if I do. But Ariel kisses like a starved addict finally getting his fix. I have to forcibly break his grip on me before I can pull away.

Interesting. And a perfect starting point, because now it's time to do what I do best: see if I can dig up his deepest insecurities, worst memories, all that good stuff. I'm told that this should not be my first impulse upon meeting new people. I beg to differ. Life is so much more fun when you know how to make people cry.

"If you gained a hundred pounds, what would you be like?" I muse, settling down cross-legged beside where he's still lying on his back.

Ariel tenses. "Dead. Because I'd hurl myself off a building."

"Plenty of people are perfectly happy being a hundred pounds overweight."

"Fine. But I wouldn't be."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"That's awfully shallow, don't you think?"

He stretches languidly and gives me a crooked smile. "You may not have noticed this, darling, but I am in fact shallow. Because there's a word for people who aren't: ugly."

I consider that for a moment. "I don't think you really believe that. I think you're just trying to justify your self-esteem being one hundred percent based on your pretty face."

"Is not."

"No?"

"I have a great ass, too," he giggles. Actually, truly _giggles._

I stare at him. "Are you sober?"

"Not quite."

"What did you find?"

"Whatever this painkiller is. I took more while Amelia wasn't looking."

"You're fucked up."

"And it's not the kind that numbs you. I can feel everything," he smiles. "But it makes you feel _good._"

"How long have you done this?"

"Done what?"

"Acted like a ditzy slut."

He shrugs. "I don't know. A while."

"Did you go to clubs and get high and go home with random people when you were fifteen? Fourteen?"

"Sure."

"And that's never ended badly?"

His expression doesn't change. "What do _you_ think?"

He's got me on that one, slamming the ball neatly back into my court. "I don't know District Five."

"What's your point, though?" he yawns. "Concerned for my wellbeing? Wondering if karma's ever caught up with me for my sinful ways? Or you just like the idea of someone having their way with me?"

"I assure you, I do not, and a psychologist would have a field day with you even saying that."

"Aw, you _do _care."

I laugh. "No. But I want to know. Is that really how you see yourself? Do you even have a personality, aside from 'whore'?"

"Sure I do, it's called 'vaguely unpleasant and increasingly annoyed'."

"You weren't this touchy before."

"What?"

"During training and stuff. You didn't mind people talking about you like a hooker for sale."

Ariel raises an eyebrow. "How long have you been waiting to call me all these names? If you want to talk dirty, just tell me. Only I think you've already exhausted every variation of 'prostitute.'"

"I've done no such thing, you strumpet."

"Touché."

"Tart," I add.

"Yep. Got it."

Hmm. Somewhere along the line, I actually hurt his feelings. What a pity.

"So, your parents," I begin. "Dead, permissive, or puritanical?"

Ariel smiles, and I can tell by the number of teeth in it that I won't like whatever's coming. "The last one. But if we're playing twenty questions, it's my turn," he says sweetly. "That scar on your neck. Looks like a knife. Why did someone try to kill you? Or was it you?"

I'm going to break his neck. Except I'm not strong enough. I can't choke him; he's about my size and probably a little stronger. I look around to see where I left the rifle.

Ariel is still smiling. "Get the point?"

Okay, so maybe I won't kill him, but come to think of it I should be holding the rifle anyway. Guard duty and all that. "What?"

"Don't ask questions you know you shouldn't. Now we're even."

I return his grin tooth for tooth. "Why would I want us to be even?"

"Why indeed? I assume you mean things are going to be uneven at your own expense, though," he says, hauling himself to his elbows.

I push him back down. "Nope."

"What makes you think-?" he begins indignantly.

"Ariel, you faint when Fenris looks at you."

"Are you saying you'd say no to Fenris?"

"I… that's not the point."

"What's the point, then?"

"You know damn well what the point is."

"Do I?"

"I think you do."

I wonder how long we'll go back and forth before it dawns on him that he wants this more than I do, and I'll happily bicker with him until he world ends. Not long, as it turns out.

"Fuck's sake, Woohyun, do something interesting or let me," he groans.

"That's not very polite."

"Fuck's sake, Woohyun, you smug, poncey damn bastard, do something interesting or let me, _if you would be so kind,_" Ariel says through gritted teeth.

I consider it, then nod. "A 'please' would've been nice–"

He gives me a _don't push it _glare.

"–But that'll do."

"Glad to hear it."

He still doesn't think I'm a force to be reckoned with, I can tell. He's humoring me, with every intention of taking over the second I falter. It doesn't bother me. Makes things more fun, actually. I just hope he likes surprises.

Ariel gives me a _well? _look.

I put a hand on his thigh, right where I can feel the bandages through his jeans, and squeeze. I can't be hurting him much, but he knows damn well that I could. His face goes pale. I can practically see his adrenaline spike.

"That's what I thought," I mutter.

"That's cheating, you–" He cuts himself off with a sharp cry as I give his leg a solid whack.

"Shut up."

He does.

"… Oh my god, you totally liked that. I _knew _it."

He shrugs without a trace of shame. I can't help respecting that. He's weird, but he's not sorry about it, and as far as I can see it's not like he's hurting anyone. Presumably not without their permission, anyway.

"Well, fine," I say with my best _you are going to suffer _smile. "I can work with that."

Ariel gulps.

I scoot around so I'm kneeling with his legs on either side of mine, hiking the hurt one up so it's pinned against my hip. The slightest bit of pressure from my thumb on the bandages and he closes his eyes and makes a squeaky little noise. It's very gratifying.

The kiss is much more fun this time, now that he's more cooperative. And this sort of thing has a way of building up momentum in one direction or another. Soon I've got a hand in his hair, dragging his head back, and then my teeth at his throat, which seems to be the magic bullet to make him a gasping, trembling mess.

Yeah, suck on that, Panem. You wish you had moves like me. Sure, he's probably whoring it up for the cameras, but I think it's mostly real. Which, of course, makes me morbidly curious about just how riled-up I can get him without taking his clothes off.

As it turns out, very. I give his hurt thigh a casual squeeze and get a reaction they probably can't show on TV. I run my hands up to his hips, leave them there for just long enough to make him squirm, then slide them under his shirt, "accidentally" pushing it up to his ribs. Might as well share the joy with the rest of Panem.

His neck is more fun, though. I keep one hand up his shirt, but grab his hair again with the other, yanking his head back to expose his throat and biting it hard enough to mark him for a week. I'm not possessive, really, but I suspect it'll piss him off once he gets his wits back, and I love nothing more than making people love me and hate me at the same time.

But that won't happen for a while. He seems pretty happy with me right now, pulling me down with both arms and hooking his good leg around my hips, trying to press against them.

"Well, that's just not decent," I object. "People will judge us."

He doesn't seem to hear me. Actually, I'm not sure he's acting at all; I think he can wrangle everyone's hormones but his own. Oh well. Not my problem. Works out damn well for me, actually.

"There are handcuffs over there," I observe.

"M-My mentor told me not to let anyone tie me up in the Arena," he gasps.

"... You had to be _told _that?"

He shrugs, then makes yet another indecent noise when I yank his shirt collar down and bite his collarbone.

"Ariel, there are children watching," I say in mock disapproval, casually grinding my hipbone somewhere it has no business being. He bites his lip and whimpers. I think he'd let me do him right here in the Arena, but even I'm a bit too modest for that. Unless he asked _really _nicely, which I honestly believe I could make him do.

I figure I might as well keep at it until he gets bored or something happens. He's just so fun to mess with. For someone who's probably had absolutely everything done to him a hundred times, he's awfully sensitive. Which could be _why _he's so easy, come to think of it. I've never seen someone lose it so much over what's technically just a makeout, and I've seen a lot of people do a lot of things.

I put a hand on his neck experimentally. He smacks my arm away hard enough to hurt. Okay. None of that, then. But apparently my mouth is still fine, so I take the liberty of biting the spot I already bruised. He yelps and arches his back, swearing and tensing even more when I just so happen to rub my hipbone in the right place again.

"Oh, hey, Amelia," Ariel says breathlessly. I look up with a start, my lips at his throat, his leg still wrapped around me, feeling a bit like I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

Amelia's standing in the doorway, looking more nonplussed than angry, if a little red in the cheeks. "Really, you two?" she says. "I was gone for ten minutes. Contain yourselves. This is the Hunger Games."

He shrugs, totally disregarding that I'm still on top of him. "Exactly. I've probably got a few days of being alive left. Why not make the most of it?"

Amelia frowns. "Okay. Do what you want."

She still doesn't sound angry, but she doesn't sound happy, either. And I know exactly why.

Somebody's _jealous._

**Thousand of miles away, Deyna gulps Jaegermeister as Tibbi and Cleo squeal loudly enough to break glass. Which is creepy as fuck because technically these guys aren't even legal. Oh, Capitol. You so silly.**

**So… I hope that wasn't too exploitative. I do try to have some respect for the characters' personalities, backstories, etc. when I write stuff like this, and I think there's some worthwhile character development if you squint.** **In any case, Woohyun: 1, Ariel: 0. Although Ariel would object to the notion that what he did qualifies as losing.**

**Needless to say, I now have a playlist called "eheheh". Think Bubblegum Bitch and Bruises & Bitemarks. They are quite a combination. Might've written some of this to Yakety Sax too by accident, come to think of it.**

**ALSO. Chinarin's story In a Capitol Daze needs tributes! Bahrtok might still need a couple too, unless those spots filled since the last time I checked.**


	39. Fear Itself

**Still with me? Great. And now for another camera angle. Not really. Well, kind of.**

**To clarify something I left pretty ambiguous, and for a fact of the day: Ariel managed to get the thing out of his boot within a few minutes of Luther leaving and kick it away. Having a piece of radioactive anything that close to you is never a ****_good _****thing, but it's true that feet aren't very radiation-sensitive and it wasn't there for very long. That, and solid metals that aren't at critical mass (that'll be a fun fact for another, very bad day) emit alpha particles. (There might be exceptions to that, but let's just say whatever was in Ariel's boot was one of the things that does.) If you recall from his Reaping chapter, alpha particles can't penetrate the skin, although it's still not a good idea to play catch with them because if you inhale any of the metal it can certainly damage the insides of your lungs. Also, the type of Geiger counter he built—a simple version with an argon tube—can't distinguish between different types of radiation, so although he could guess it was alpha radiation, he couldn't be a hundred percent sure the Capitol didn't plant some kind of who-knows-what that emitted beta or gamma radiation, which most certainly ****_can _****get through the skin. Hence his preference to not have it near him.**

**Tl;dr: a chunk of uranium or plutonium won't kill you unless it's big enough, but don't eat it or stuff it up your nose.**

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

I do not feel bad. I do not feel bad. I do not feel bad.

Okay, I feel bad.

But all I want is to survive. I don't want Des and Castalia to die. The thought is awful. But I don't see why I have to try and be a hero, either. I've always been that quiet girl in the background, shy and polite, never stirring things up. Am I really expected to put my life on the line for people I met a week ago?

But I guess a lot has happened in that week. We stuck together during training, we went down the hatch together, we faced the monster together. And I pushed Castalia out of my way to get away from it.

I'm not a hero. I'm not brave. I never claimed to be, I don't want to be. But that memory is really, really bothering me, eating away at my insides. I want to live, but I'm starting to realize I can't be ruthless or I'll make myself miserable. I'm making people hate me. And that's not even the problem, really. I'm chipping away at my own self-respect. The lower I sink to preserve my life, the less it's worth.

I changed my mind. Survival at all costs isn't such a good philosophy after all.

I don't move a muscle, perched on a pipe in a big, quiet storage room, but all at once I make what I know is a big decision: I'm going to be someone worthy of respect. I'm going to be brave. Fearless. I'm going to face this Arena down, and if it kills me I'll die like so many in my history books, fighting, pushing back, standing up, someone future generations can be proud of being descended from, except I obviously won't have descendants, but that's not the point, and I'm sure some of my siblings will have kids anyway so close enough. _Someone _will be proud to be related to me.

It's like a fire kindling in my chest. I feel physically stronger. Suddenly I understand the attitudes of some of those other tributes, like the Four boy and Ten girl. That quiet confidence despite their awful chances. It's not because they think they'll live, it's because they're not scared to die, and that means they win the only game they care about. If I'm not afraid, they have no power over me. It's only fear that can make me do what they want. But if I decide that I'm going to do what I know I'll respect myself the most for, there's not a damn thing they can do to stop me.

I drop from the pipe, draw the pistol, and stride out into the hallway, my head held higher than I think it's been in my life.

The Careers are on the top floor. With any luck, Des and Castalia are near there if they're still alive. I'm going to find them. If I meet a Career on the way, well, we'll see.

I make it to the top floor without incident. This floor is pretty dull, all metal hallways and locked hatches on the walls, although I can barely see them. I follow the reflected light toward what feels like the center of the Arena until I see it spilling from a doorway. That's got to be the Career base. Otherwise known as the place I am most definitely _not _going. I decided I'd be brave, not suicidal.

Except I hear something. Is it possible that Des and Castalia are still there? For all I know, there were only one or two Careers left and my former allies managed to kill them. And the noise sort of sounds like someone in pain. Sort of. Not quite.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I decide I'll peek around the corner after all. Very carefully. If someone sees me, I'll turn and run. I take one last look over my shoulder to make sure nothing's coming, then creep forward and lean around the edge of the doorway.

Oh, good lord.

I pull back, blinking owlishly and trying to process what I just saw. Questionably-Dancing Lab Boy made a… friend.

I should kill them. Just stroll in there and shoot them both. I bet they wouldn't even notice me coming. But before I can decide whether that fits my newfound philosophy, there's a noise behind me. Footsteps.

I dart past the doorway, banking on the boys not noticing me, ducking into the darkness beyond it just in time. The footsteps round the corner. The One girl steps into the light and stops dead.

"Oh, hey, Amelia," Lab Boy's voice says from inside.

"Really, you two?" she reprimands, stepping into the room. "I was gone for ten minutes. Contain yourselves. This is the Hunger Games,"

Wait. Damn. I could've shot her, too, and been long gone before the boys managed to untangle themselves, find weapons, and come after me. If they even would, given how busy they were.

_Does_ killing Careers count as doing the right thing, though? I have no clue. What if the Careers killed Des and Castalia?

That's the real question. Where the hell are Des and Castalia?

**Lillen Ketch, District Ten, 18**

My ol' grandpa used to say, if it's stupid and it works, it ain't stupid.

I've wandered up a few floors and I think I'm as high as I can go now. I've still got that black orb thingy. But not for long, I hope.

This floor is dark and seemingly deserted. The architecture is boring, anyway. Lots of metal and locked doors. Open rooms here and there without much of anything in them. But I'm sure there are night vision cameras everywhere, so if I just pull the thing from my pocket and drop it somewhere, the Gamemakers will notice.

Which is why I have my _plan._

I put my hand in my pocket and stride purposefully toward one of the empty hatch things. As I step inside, I "accidentally" catch my foot on the lip of the doorway and fall on my face. I "accidentally" grab a big shelf of stuff next to the door as I fall, dragging it down on top of myself. Blessedly empty beakers smash and forceps skitter across the room. Somewhere in the wreckage is the black orb. The shelf is a little heavier than I might've hoped—ow—but I can budge it when I wriggle a little.

"–Definitely this way–"

Hmm. That's not good.

Should I lie still and hope they'll go the wrong way? Do my best to get free and run for it? I could reach out and knock the door shut from where I am, but something tells me that if that door closes, it's not opening again. I'd rather run into the Careers. And I'm ninety percent sure the voice I heard was a Career.

I decide I like the idea of doing something and dying for it more than doing nothing and dying for it. I brace my toes and palms on the concrete and heave myself off the ground, struggling and cursing my way out from under the shelf. The metal screeches against the wall. More glass breaks.

"Here." The voice is right outside the door. No running, then.

I sigh and dive being the pile of rubble. It's worth a shot.

The door crashes open and two tall figures clamber in. One boy, one girl. The girl sweeps a flashlight across the room, then holds it on me.

"Uh… I see you," the guy says.

I chew my lip and study the broken glass in front of me, because I guess I should revel in my last few seconds of life. Take it all in. Take all what in? Yep, that's a sharp bit of glass, alright. I know because my palms are torn to shreds. I note how dusty the air tastes and how hard the concrete is and how it'll all go on just fine without me.

Just because I'm gone doesn't mean I never was. I'm still real. I was here, I was good, I did good things, and that'll still be true when I'm dead.

I stand up straight and give the Careers a terse smile. With the light coming from behind them, I can't see their faces. It feels right somehow, making them seem almost angelic. The boy raises a crossbow and sends a bolt into my heart.

**Mission accomplished. Yaaaaay Lillen. Also I started writing things really out of order—as in, the next four chapters are pretty much finished—so let me know if you spot any inconsistencies or weird chronological stuff.**


	40. Bummer

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

It's a good thing I'm hunting alone, because the first thing I do is fall down the stairs. I brush myself off and glance around to make sure no one saw that. Okay. Good.

Except not really, because at least if someone saw it I could've just murdered the hell out of them. I'm here to kill people. That is the entire point of this exercise. So it's a bit of a bummer that there's no one around to kill.

"Bummer" is maybe an understatement. I'm bored. Dangerously bored. Angrily, furiously, ragingly bored. In a bloodthirsty sort of way.

I came here to kill people. I have trained my whole life to kill people. Dreamed about it. I played the good girl in District Four, sweet and innocent, knowing it would make it that much more fun when I finally, _finally _got to go all out, track and chase and charge and laugh and kill brutally enough to feel fulfilled. I've promised myself for years and years that I would get this chance to be totally unrestrained and unapologetic, shattering every rule of civilization, shattering people, because I can.

But _there's no one here._

I have to find them because I have to win. I promised her. Speaking out loud to my empty room in the middle of the night, talking to the moonlit ceiling, telling the silence that I would kill and kill and kill to prove myself the best, to show everyone how good _she _was. Amani's pathetic, but Mom's strength is obvious in me. They'll see me and know it's from her.

I pace and stalk and prowl down hallway after hallway like a caged animal, promising myself time after time that there will be someone around _this_ corner, no, okay, surely this one then, and then I can hurl myself at them and tear them to pieces.

Darkness. Flickering lights. Metal. The occasional monster mutt, but they crumble like frozen paper at my sword. My muscles are crackling with energy. I want to punch a wall just to get rid of it, but I'm not that stupid.

I search for hours and hours and find no one. At last I resign myself to a wasted day and start back to our base. I fucking _dare _anyone to mess with me tonight.

What I find at base, at least, lifts my mood somewhat. It's like a catfight, but instead of girls pulling each other's hair, it's pretty boys threatening to shoot each other in the face. Oh my god. This is the best thing ever. I've got to snapchat this.

Wait. Shit. Ugh.

No phones, no coffee, no chocolate, no deaths. I want to scream, or throw someone through the wall, or both. Something has to give here. Soon.

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

It's quiet and it's making me nervous.

We haven't run into anyone or anything since the clusterfuck in that intersection. I think we're going in circles, but Ted insists we aren't. It's not so much that I trust his judgment as that I don't care.

"Should we try another floor?" he whispers as we turn a corner into yet another dark hallway.

"If it's not broken, don't fix it," I reply.

"Good point."

We walk in silence for a few minutes.

"What was that?" Ted says sharply.

My stomach flips. "What was what?"

"I just… saw something. I think. Or I don't know if I _saw _it, but…" He trails off, squinting into the tunnel behind us.

My night vision isn't bad, but all I see is darkness. "Are you sure?"

"No."

"Well, should we keep walking?"

He shakes his head without taking his eyes off the distant blackness. "I don't think so. Then it'll be behind us."

"But you just said you're not sure it's there."

"Well, I… I'm not. I'm not positive I saw it. But I'm pretty sure it's there."

I still don't see anything, but he's making me nervous. The blackness seems to grow more menacing by the second, like it's growing darker and closer.

It _is _growing darker and closer. Slowly but surely.

Ted narrows his eyes. "Is it…?"

"Yep. Let's go," I say hurriedly, grabbing him and taking off.

I still don't hear anything or even really see it, but I feel in my gut that we're being chased. That sharp, sick feeling that claws will sink into the back of my neck any second. I don't want to believe it. I can almost convince myself that it's all in my head, like that instinctive jumpiness of climbing up the stairs from a dark basement. Almost.

I risk another glance over my shoulder and wish I hadn't. There's something there. Something big. Flashing in the darkness, like dull metal. The pattern of its movements reminds me of a pile of snakes.

I gulp and decide to concentrate on running.

We pass a tunnel and I'm about to drag Ted down it when I realize the weird, opaque darkness is there, too. And the next one. And the next one. It's still behind us. There's no way it couldn't catch us if it really wanted to, whatever "it" is. It's herding us somewhere.

And then it's gone, retreating like it's been sucked back by a vacuum. The tunnels are still dark, but not that freaky, quasi-supernatural blackness.

Something's going to happen. They wouldn't chase us like that and leave both of us unharmed if there wasn't more to it. There's something here.

Ted nudges me, puts a finger to his lips, and points to a hallway that intersects ours maybe ten feet away. He's right. There's something in there, coming toward us. We back up against the wall in unison, so hopefully we'll see it before it sees us. I grip the knife until my knuckles feel about to crack, tensing to spring.

The sound gets closer. Stumbling, uneven footsteps. Too solid to be one of the pale mutts. Heavy breathing. A tribute?

Desdemona comes running out of the hallway, sobbing for breath. And just sobbing in general. She's gripping a pistol. She practically collapses against the far wall, her hands shaking. The thing that chased us must've chased her here too, and I don't think distance running is high on her skill list.

Ted and I exchange glances. I think we're thinking the same thing. No way we're killing her, but it'd be good if she didn't shoot us. I don't think she'd kill me ordinarily, but who knows what kind of crazy mood she's in?

"Des?" I say quietly, wondering if I should run or tackle her if she points the gun at me.

Of course she jumps, whirls, and aims it right at my face, wide-eyed and still shaking.

I freeze. "Uh, whoa."

She stares at me for a second like she doesn't recognize me, then runs at me. Before I can react, she throws her arms around me and starts crying into my coat.

Um.

I shoot Ted a panicked what-do-I-do look. He bites his lip. I think he's laughing at me. Jackass.

"Um… yeah. Hi," I say to Des, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "It's, um, it's okay. Sorry about… whatever."

She squeezes me tighter. For a thirteen-year-old girl, she's _really _strong.

"Des?"

She makes a sniffling noise. There's something jabbing my spine.

"Des, I can't breathe. And, uh, watch where you're pointing the gun."

She relaxes her grip slightly and stops aiming the pistol at my kidney.

"Okay. Better. Thanks."

This is… new. People running _to _me for comfort is exactly the opposite of how things usually go. I have no idea what I'm doing. Shoulder pats, I think, are a thing that people do, but I already tried that and it didn't work. Should I say nice things? Try to figure out what happened? Why wasn't there a booth for this at training?

"Castalia," she sniffs.

"I… who? What?"

"Castalia!" she cries. "The C-Careers, they… they p-pushed her in the pit, s-she…"

"Oh," I say, then run out of ideas. Ted gives me a Look. I give the shoulder patting another try, and she actually relaxes a little. I'm learning.

She thinks I'm a good person. It's the weirdest fucking thing. What am I supposed to do when she realizes the truth? Better to just keep her from getting too attached in the first place.

"C-Can I stay with you?" she mumbles into my chest.

Dammit.

My hesitation must show on my face, because Ted gives me what I'm starting to realize is his patented don't-be-an-ass look.

"Yeah, no problem."

**New poll up. Yeah, that was the Thing.**


	41. Something Nice

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

"Luther," Kaya calls from the hall in her this-is-serious-come-look-now voice.

She's very capable. I like her. I wish I could keep her, but I can't.

I stick my head out the door of the security booth. Kaya is standing thirty feet down the hallway in the opposite direction from where Ariel was. It's odd to see the intersection so quiet when it was so very lively once upon a time.

"Did you mean to do that?" Kaya says, pointing. There's a screen on the wall I don't remember seeing before. Too dark, maybe, or camouflaged. But now it's lit up, displaying what looks like a live feed of the main workstation in the security room.

"Hmm," I say. "So _that's _what that button does."

"Do you think there are more? Screens, I mean?"

"There could be. I'll find something nice to put up for everybody." I return to the booth and hit the button again. "Did it go off?"

"Yep."

I decide to take another sweep through the security cameras before deciding on something to display. The other tributes don't need _quite _that much information. The cameras on Floor One seem to have stopped working entirely. The Sixes and Eights are on Two. The Threes are passed out in a storage closet on Three. The District Ten wolfman is snuffling around up the hallway from them. The Careers are still based on Floor Four. Two of them, I think the One boy and Two girl, are wandering around up there, drawing toward the Ten girl, with another lone Career girl on her way down to Three. The Twelve girl is running around on Floor Two too, for whatever reason. The Four boy and One girl are at the base with Ariel.

"Oh," Kaya says. "You were right. They found him."

I nod thoughtfully. "Knew it. Could you go watch the screen out there again?"

Kaya leaves. I find a better angle of the Career base, raising an eyebrow as Ariel makes a spectacularly transparent attempt to cuddle up to the One girl. He's shameless. She ignores him. Ouch. He gives up and settles down on his stomach next to her, closing his eyes.

But oh, what's this? A few seconds later, she puts her hand on his shoulder, not rubbing it or anything, just sort of resting it there. But that's all I need to see. They like each other.

"No no _no, _darling, you don't _get _nice things," I chide Ariel's onscreen image.

"What?" Kaya says from the doorway.

"Nothing. Almost done."

"'Kay."

She leaves again. I flip through the computer's displays. Time, traps, blah blah blah… ooh. A list of tributes, some of the names greyed out. Perfect. That ought to raise morale.

"Oh," Kaya's voice says from down the hall as I make the screen live.

I grin and jog out to join her. The list is still long—all of Districts One through Six but Jaiven, plus Kaya, Desdemona, Atlas, Fenris, and Felicity. Sixteen names. That can change.

**Reyna Alcott, District Six, 18**

The pipe next to me makes an ominous cracking noise, then an earsplitting shriek. I jump backwards instinctively. A split second later, a jet of blue-white steam blasts from a joint. I feel the heat of it even from a few feet away.

Okay. I did something wrong and they're warning me about it, but not wrong enough for them to actually burn me. They gave me plenty of time to dodge. They're fair.

But what did I do? I've just been wandering around, eating, and sleeping. I lost Ted.

Is that it? I lost Ted? Do they want me to kill Ted?

I smell something. Sharp and bitter, like lemon juice, but orders of magnitude more intense, strong enough to burn my throat. The pipe is still leaking.

Not just the inside of my throat, I realize as I run. My face burns too. The stuff is caustic.

And it's billowing from the intersecting tunnel. There's an opaque, smoky wall of blue-white creeping toward me. I look over my shoulder. Same thing.

Uh-oh.

Is this some kind of test? If I close my eyes and hold my breath and run into the stuff, will I make it out the other side? Or have I already failed and they're doing away with me? I don't want to die.

The fog is thick enough to block the light from the fixtures it's already covered. I'm isolated in a shrinking chamber of clean air, the approaching toxic smoke stark and shimmering blue in the white light. The walls are smooth metal. I don't see what help the pipes on the ceiling are.

There's a door. I curse myself for being too panicky and distracted to notice it earlier. One of those heavy hatches in the wall, the edge of it just now vanishing into the smoke.

I run at it without a second of hesitation, noting in a vague, impersonal sense that this is going to be excruciatingly painful. It doesn't concern me much. I may not be charming or book-smart or pretty or anything nice like that, but I have my strengths. When I decide to do something, I do it. End of story.

I hold my breath, squint my eyes until I can barely see, and charge into the smoke. My hands, neck, and face immediately feel like someone's thrown acid over them. I can't keep my eyes open. I find the hatch, clawing blindly for the wheel thing that opens it. My hands feel like they're being dissolved to the bone.

What _is _this stuff? I could use it back home. It would be very persuasive, I bet.

The hatch swings open. I tumble through it and slam it shut. There's an ominously final-sounding _click, _but I don't care.

My skin doesn't hurt anymore. I frown and touch my face. It feels normal. The skin of my hands is smooth and warm when I rub them together.

Hmm.

There's no light here. From the way my breathing echoes, I think this place is about the size of an average bedroom and mostly empty. It's cold, but not freezing. Dead silent except the noise I'm making.

But there has to be something here. The Capitol wants me to be here.

"Hello?" I say out loud. Nothing.

I poke at the door experimentally. I don't find anything like a handle. Nothing happens when I press on it lightly, then harder, throwing my shoulder against it. I'm strong, but it's apparent that the door is very much locked.

Now I'm nervous, but I force the feeling down. There's a reason for this. There's a reason for everything the Capitol does. I just have to calm down and think and figure out what they're trying to tell me.

But _nothing is happening. _I search the room, feeling in the corners even though I half-expect something to bite my hand off. Nothing but unidentifiable, dusty bits of debris. I keep looking, more because having something to do is helping me stay calm than because I really think it'll do any good.

I miss my snakes. Especially Monty the python. He's a sweetheart, squeezing people I drop him on, but letting them go when I snap my fingers. I'd feel so much better if he were here with me right now to keep me company.

I try the door again, a bit more urgently this time. Nothing.

I flop to the floor with an irritated growl, pulling my knees up to my chest and staring into the blackness. It seems to be getting heavier by the second and I keep thinking I see it billowing like the smoke in the hallway, getting closer, but the vision vanishes just before it reaches me.

"Reyna."

I gasp and sit bolt upright.

"Reyna, can you hear me?"

"I-I…" I stutter, looking in every direction even though I still can't see. "Dad?"

"It's me."

"… Hi," I say weakly. I don't know how to feel. I miss him, a lot, but is it a bad thing that the Capitol brought him in? I know he's not really here in the Arena, but still, his voice was the last thing I expected to hear.

"Reyna, listen to me."

"Of course."

"You know why you're here."

"I… I think so?"

"Yes, you do. You know the purpose of the Hunger Games. Don't you?"

I take a deep breath and steel myself. Of course I do. Justice. Punishing those who have done wrong. "Yes, I know it."

"Then you know what you have to do."

"I…"

"Will you be a force for Capitol justice? Or will you skulk around like one of them?"

Dad doesn't talk like that, but I barely notice. "No. I mean, yes. Yes to the justice one."

"Are you sure?"

The voice doesn't even sound like my father anymore. It's deeper and louder, uncomfortably so.

"I'm sure."

"Then _prove it." _

Now it's loud enough to make me cover my ears, echoing and echoing through the little metal room. I feel it in my chest.

"I will. What do you want me to do?" I say into the darkness, trying to keep my voice firm and strong.

"You _know _what to do," the voice snarls, hitting me like a punch and knocking me to the floor, making me curl up with my hands over my ears and my knees over my hands. I'm scared. But I also feel a flaring sense of purpose. I _knew _it. I knew they reaped me for a reason. They believe in me. They want me to fight for them, for justice, for everything they've built.

I uncover my ears. "I do know," I whisper.

"Good." The voice returns to a normal volume. Now it sounds nothing like my father, but it's almost as familiar.

It's the President, I realize. President Fife himself is speaking to me. I might pass out.

The door swings open of its own accord. The air outside is clear and bright.

Fife's voice speaks one more time as I stumble to my feet, still relatively quiet, but full and firm as a deity. "Then _do it."_

**Not sure why this took so long. Guess I've been busy doing absolutely nothing.**


	42. Weak Spot

**Warning: violence and Ariel and shit going down in general because one of my jackass friends got me Fifty Shades for Christmas and I read a bit of it and now I'm angry. This is a while after Lillen died and Luther took over the screens.**

**Merona Styx, District Two, 18**

"How many people have we killed so far?" I ask.

Amaris rolls her eyes, slashing her sword in midair restlessly. "Four. One for me, three for you, half each for the Ones. The Cheekbones Squad and Jaiven, blessings and peace be upon his soul, get none."

"I just got here," Ariel protests. "And I can't walk."

"Whose fault is that?" Amaris sniffs.

Ariel gives her a grumpy look. "Uh… not mine?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

There's a beat of silence. Amaris paces across the room and crouches down in front of him, every aspect of her body language as aggressive as it could possibly be. "Should I? You really want to start with me right now, princess?"

Ariel freezes in the middle of soldering a doohickey onto the thingy. "Well… honestly, that depends on how you intend to go about doing it."

"How about I beat you unconscious?"

"Mm, nah. That kills brain cells. How about you cover my mouth? With your mouth, or whatever you want, really? Have I ever mentioned that you're fearsomely beautiful?" he says, staring up at her longingly, or at least doing a good impression of it.

Amaris manages to keep the scowl, but I can tell she wants to smile. "Oh my god, you bitch, shut _up._"

His cheeks turn red. "Don't call me that."

Amaris laughs. "I'll call you whatever I damn well please, bitch."

"I said don't," Ariel hisses. Just as suddenly as the situation almost recovered, it gets tense again. And I already know what's going to happen. Neither of them will back down, and Amaris will get violent. She already ceded leadership to Jaiven, and then to Amelia; there's no way she'll brook subordination from him. Not after she's gone practically the whole Hunger Games so far without hurting anyone.

"I don't care what you said, bitch. Don't fuck with…" Amaris trails off. The tip of the soldering iron is an inch from her eye.

"Do _not _call me that," Ariel says quietly. Ooh. And it's not like he reacts to any other insult. There's a history there.

Amaris smiles. Ariel gulps. Oh, boy. Somebody's in trouble.

I'm not sure he understands that Amaris and Amelia are not the same. Amelia can kill, but Amaris is on a whole different level. It's not just that she justifies herself. It's _fun _for her. In her mind, she makes the rules, period, and anything is justified as long as she's the one doing it.

Which, now that I think about it, could be said about me. Well, fine. We're both awesome; why _shouldn't _we do whatever we want? But I'm still better. Three kills to her one, after all.

Ariel's trademark unholy screech echoes through the room, reminding me that, oh right, there's still a bit of a situation going on here. I'm supposed to be sleeping right now, actually, while Amaris keeps watch—Ariel doesn't count as a guard—but I want to see this.

I scoot to the side to get a better view. Amaris has him in an arm bar. There's a nasty burn on the inside of his forearm, and from the look on her face—halfway between rage and cruel delight—she's not done yet. Ariel is fighting for all he's worth, but I can tell at a glance that he doesn't have the strength or skill to get away.

He shoots me a pleading look. I give him a not-my-problem shrug in return. Honestly, what did he expect? That's why you stay in your goddamn lane, especially when your knight in shining armor is out hunting.

And Amaris isn't just messing with him because she can. She's _pissed. _It probably doesn't help that she's got a whole lot of bloodthirsty energy to burn. But for a split second, he scared her, and I've seen enough of her to know that's unforgivable. I wonder if she'll kill him.

Ariel gives another awful, ragged scream as Amaris presses the soldiering iron to his skin and leaves it there. And then does it again. He's not fighting anymore, just shuddering every time she burns him, his face the palest I've seen it so far. He'll lose consciousness soon if she keeps this up. Wuss.

"Do. Not. Threaten. Me," Amaris snarls.

"Okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry Amaris _please–"_ he wails, twisting to bite his coat and muffle another scream as she burns him yet again.

She kicks him away abruptly and jumps to her feet, then kicks him a few more times, seemingly just because. I think she's burned through her anger at him by now, but she's going to keep taking things out on him, because why not, right? He can't run or fight anyway, so who cares if she hurts him, as long as he can still build? And he blew it by running away at the Cornucopia; he's more captive than ally.

Amaris throws a punch at his ribs. I think I hear a crack. Ariel curls up on his side with another muffled yell. He stays that way, doing his best to duck and cover as Amaris hits him again and again. They're not well-aimed, trained blows designed to incapacitate or kill; at this point I think she just wants to hit something softer than the wall and he was unlucky enough to get in her way.

She kicks him onto his back, slams a knee into his chest, and grabs him by the throat. He panics instantly, wide-eyed, thrashing and tugging on her wrists. She barely seems to notice.

"Never again," she hisses, shaking him and whacking his head against the floor in the process. "Don't you ever, _ever–"_

Ariel must black out, because Amaris lets him go with another wild-animal growl. He starts gasping for breath a second later. She grabs his hair and snatches the soldering iron from the ground, twirling it in front of his face with a wicked grin.

Ooh, she's going right for the weak spot: his vanity. Harsh, but I don't care.

Ariel sucks in a breath as he realizes the same thing. He was scared before, but the look in his eyes now is pure terror. I wonder if he's trying to imagine a life of not being unspeakably pretty. Guess he'll find out what that's like in short order.

Movement beyond them catches my eye.

"Amaris," I say sharply, scrambling to my feet.

There are monsters in the doorway. A lot of them, with more skulking into view by the second. Amaris stands up, stepping on Ariel's gut in the process, drawing her sword.

We stare at the monsters. The monsters stare back. The standoff stretches on for a few minutes. Then, all at once, they slink back into the darkness.

Amaris and I exchange glances. We don't have to say it out loud; we both get the loud, clear message from the Gamemakers. We can beat the living hell out Ariel if we want, call him names, burn him, choke him, whatever, but we better not mess up his face. How terribly objectifying of them. I wonder if he caught onto the same thing.

I glance over to see what he's up to. He's dragged himself back over to his spot by the wall, curled around his burned arm with his back to us. His shoulders are shaking. Aw. Someone's unhappy.

Amaris stalks up and kicks him hard. "Get your shit together and keep working," she snarls.

He lifts his head slowly, staring at the soldering iron like he thinks it'll attack him. Amaris tenses like she's about to hit him again. He gulps and picks it up, trying to grab a circuit doohickey with his other hand, but it's shaking so badly he can't get a grip on it for a good ten seconds.

Now, what's going to happen when Amelia gets back?

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

The girl in the doorway has a knife. She's not very big. I can kill her. Once I kill her, it won't be hard to kill the boy behind her. He's bleeding a lot. I can smell it.

I swing the pipe. She leans out of the way. The pipe hits the doorway, and it hurts my hand. The girl's arm shoots out and she tears it from my numbed grip before I know what's happening. Now she has a knife in one hand and a pipe in the other and I have nothing. But I can still kill her.

I take a step forward. She raises the pipe, jabbing it into my chest and stopping me where I am, staring at me flatly. I don't think she ever blinks.

I grab the pipe and pull on it. She hangs on and pushes off the ground and comes flying at my face knife-first. I manage to raise an arm and deflect what was meant to be a full-on stab into my neck. The knife slashes across my face instead and the girl lands on her feet behind me.

She missed my eye. There's blood dripping into my eyes, though. That's bad.

I glance into the room. The boy is lying on his stomach, staring at me, tense and wide-eyed. He has a knife too, but he's hurt. He won't attack unless I'm about to kill the girl. I'm between the girl and him. I should kill him now so that I can deal with her alone.

His hair isn't so blue anymore. I guess there are no berry patches to fall in down here.

I lash out at the girl. She isn't expecting it and I knock her across the hallway, too far away for me to reach her before she gets up, but now I have time to kill the boy.

His eyes get wider when he sees me running at him. He tries to get up, but falters when he puts weight on his shoulder. Which will be faster, taking the knife from him and killing him with that, or breaking his neck? I hesitate for a moment, then decide to take the knife to be sure he won't stab me. I lean down and catch his wrist as he slashes at me weakly.

I see movement in the corner of my eye and realize the girl is faster than I expected. I turn to meet her and find the soles of her boots in my face.

Ow.

I stumble backwards. My nose is broken, I think. The girl is between me and the boy again. Now she looks angry. _Very _angry. Breathing hard, eyes cold, teeth glinting. I'm also angry, but my instincts tell me that this isn't a good fight. I know better to attack when a strong opponent is on a fierce defensive. Besides, my nose hurts. I want to go put water on it.

I bare my teeth one last time and leave.

**GlimmerIcewood, sorry for making Amaris about 98457893 times crazier than I think you intended. She's a delight, though.**


	43. Death Wish

**Warning: Woohyun being an ass, which manifests as vague transphobia.**

**Ash Lytton, District One, 17**

"I'm telling you, I saw someone," Woohyun insists as we lope up the hall back to base. "Skinny blondish girl."

"We'll get her later," I say tersely.

"She could be anywhere later."

"Look, can you just stop talking?"

I'm not sure why I'm so touchy. I'm getting frustrated, I guess. This isn't how the Games are supposed to go. I'll never admit it, but Jaiven's death shook me up, and I've felt pretty useless since then. But I'm supposed to be the _best. _I'm the biggest, strongest person left in the Career pack by a mile, second only to Fenris in the Arena. This should be my party now.

"No, I'm not going to stop talking, because I'm _right," _Woohyun insists. "We should track her down."

I shake my head wearily. "You said it yourself. You don't care about winning. You volunteered because you've got a death wish. And you're still talking because you're an attention whore."

"I do not have a death wish!" Woohyun spits.

"You volunteered for a stranger. You want to die, and doing it in here means people will care. District Four doesn't love you enough, huh?"

He bares his teeth. "Don't fucking psychoanalyze me."

"Don't annoy me."

"Guys," Amelia says with a long-suffering sigh. "Quit trying to piss each other off. Way too many tributes left for that."

"He started it," Woohyun sulks.

"I did no such thing."

"Did too."

I lash out without looking at him, knocking his sword from his hand and sending it clattering off down the tunnel.

"Oh, _fuck _you!" Woohyun yells, throwing an elbow at my side. I think it hurts him more than it hurts me.

"Want to go pick that up, or try and hit me again?" I say with what has to be the least happy smile in the history of the universe.

Amelia waves a hand between us. "How about you both put 'em back in your pants and we get back to base?"

"Put it back in _your _pants," Woohyun mutters.

I open my mouth to object, because even I know that's a low blow, but Amelia catches my eye and shakes her head. For a second I think she's going to let him get away with it, but she wheels on him suddenly. Oh, boy. This oughta be good.

"Not that it's any of your business," she says cheerfully. "But physically, I'm as female as Amaris or Merona."

"Okay, well–"

"And it's _still _bigger than yours."

Oh. _Oh. _Ouch.

She turns around and walks away before Woohyun can respond. I follow her, snickering into my hand.

I don't think he meant that. Not really. He just automatically says the cruelest thing he can think of as soon as it pops into his head. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm increasingly tempted to pull a Merona and drop-kick him into the acid pit.

We walk into base and I sense immediately that the drama for the day isn't over. Ariel is working feverishly on the Geiger counter and doesn't look up when we come in. Merona looks like a delighted little kid who saw her sibling break a vase and can't wait for their mother to notice. Amaris is lounging against the wall, watching us slyly, tearing into a piece of beef jerky with more ferocity than seems strictly necessary.

Woohyun sits next to her. Amelia goes to Ariel. I plant my ass right next to the door, holding my crossbow as close to a fighting grip as I dare. Merona catches my eye, idly drawing patters in the air with her sword. Amaris finishes eating and casually draws a throwing knife, tossing and catching it. Both of them keep glancing at Amelia and Ariel. I'm not sure what they're expecting, but the tension in the room is mounting by the second.

I take mental stock of the guns. Woohyun has a rifle on his back. Amelia has a pistol, but I suspect she's out of bullets. We lost one when Jaiven died. I think there are a few more pistols buried in the giant pile of extra stuff in the corner, but nothing anyone could get to quickly.

And then Merona's arm moves and it's like the massive scuffle in the intersection all over again, in that everything goes straight to hell in a second flat.

Merona whips a pistol from inside her coat and points it at Amaris, who's sitting down and can't possibly move fast enough to avoid it. What she _can _do is grab Woohyun and drag him in front of her.

_Bang._

There's an indignant squawk from the back of the room. From the corner of my eye, I see Amelia tossing Ariel over her shoulder, Geiger counter and all.

Amaris pushes Woohyun away. There's a bullet hole in his chest. He's alive, but choking on blood.

"Fuck you!" she screeches at Merona. "He was funny! And _I _wanted to kill him, you bitch!"

Merona smirks and tosses the pistol over her shoulder into the pit. That was her last bullet, I guess. Plus I think she's too dramatic to just shoot everyone down and walk out.

Well, I'm not.

I raise the crossbow. Amelia charges right past me, still carrying Ariel, but she's not a threat right now and if I shoot her I'll have to reload.

Something slashes my arm. I look down with a yelp to find my forearm bleeding, my bowstring cut, and Amaris's throwing knife clattering to the floor. Damn. Nice toss.

Her second throw buries itself in my stomach. Less nice.

I double over like I've been punched in the gut. I'm bleeding. Not dead. Maybe dying. Definitely dying if I stay here.

Amelia vanishes out the door. Merona and Amaris draw swords and stride toward each other like they mean business. I scramble after Amelia before either of them decides to take me out while I'm an easy target, covering the wound in my stomach as well as I can.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Fuck. I didn't train for this.

Amelia's gone. I half-run, half-fall down the stairs to Floor Four. I don't think there's been much activity here. I pick a direction at random and stagger down the hallway.

My parents are watching me right now, I realize with a flinch. Probably yelling at the TV, cursing me for not seeing that coming. I _just saw _her with the knives. Of course she'd expect me to try something with the crossbow, and even if her attention seemed to be on Merona, the bow made me a more immediate threat. Now I've gone from one of the biggest threats in the Arena to a sitting duck.

The hallway is lined with bedrooms. Old-fashioned, as dingy and dusty as the rest of the Arena, but I'll take it. There are books on a little shelf. Creepy portraits next to the dim lamp on the nightstand. Was that really necessary? The room feels haunted, like someone died here.

Well, someone might be about to, I think grimly.

There's one of those little video screens listing the tributes on the wall next to the bed. Amaris and Merona are both still glowing, as are Amelia, Ariel and I. Woohyun's name is greyed out. I'm not exactly heartbroken, but I'm not happy about it, either. I don't think that was how he wanted to die. He was fucked-up, but some part of him was trying to sort himself out. Even if he really was suicidal, he was just a kid like the rest of us; there's no way he couldn't have gotten better. I think he had a family out there.

Merona's name turns grey.

I'm dizzy. I sit down hard on the bed, then lie down on my back so gravity can help my blood stay in my body. But that won't save me if the knife sliced something important open. How am I supposed to know? Just lie here until I get better or die? Don't I have sponsors? I want painkillers, but more than that, I desperately want to know whether or not the wound is fatal.

There's a spider on the ceiling. Accidental? There for decoration? A venomous mutt that's going to jump down and inject acid into my face? Who knows?

A noise echoes from down the hallway. I glance over the edge of the bed and realize the floor is splattered with blood. Mine. I left a trail from the base to here.

I look at the screen again. Amaris's name blazes bright and strong.

Oh, no.

I heave myself off the bed again, gritting my teeth at the fresh wave of pain and blood. I've just drawn my sword when the door flies open and bangs against the wall.

"Hi," Amaris says with a crazy smile.

I'm stronger, but I have to cover the wound with one hand to avoid bleeding to death, which throws me off-balance. And I've already lost enough blood to make my head swim. I know I'm screwed before she even attacks.

Amaris locks swords with me. I can hold her back easily, but I can't block the punch she throws at my face. Now I'm _really _dizzy. Her eyes glint manically in the lamplight as she throws the side of her hand against my throat, toppling me backwards onto the bed. She leaps after me, crouching over me, her sword still pinning mine.

"How fucking romantic," she snarls, pulling a knife from nowhere and ramming it into my heart.

Sorry, Dad.

**Hey so uh, you guys still here? I feel like I've lost a bunch of people.**

**Moment of silence for Merona, Ash and Woohyun, the latter of whom was a dick but dammit I liked him. I liked Ash and Merona too. I like them all. Sorry for the offscreen death. Sorry if it got a little Freudian at the end there. Send help.**

**Alive: Amelia, Viss, Luka, Amaris, Luther, Ariel, Reyna, Ted, Kaya, Des, Atlas, Fenris, Felicity. Unlucky thirteen, eheheh.**


	44. A Bad Case of the Feelings

**Well, now I feel bad for review-whoring, but getting so many on one chapter was awesome. Feel free to, uh, do that again. If you are so inclined. ;)**

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to lose my mind.

I actually dragged the Eights all the way back to the ladder so I could try the hatch. Locked. I'll either win the Hunger Games or die down here, and let's be real, it's going to be the second one.

I can almost push it from my mind, but not quite. There's a constant, panicky buzzing, telling me something's not right, I shouldn't be here, this whole damn thing's not _real, _I just…

I don't know. I don't think I'm actually going crazy, just getting a serious case of cabin fever. And it's a hell of a blow to my morale, knowing I'll never see the sky again. This feels more like purgatory than a fight to the death. I know I shouldn't give up hope like that, but… too late.

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa," Atlas says, tensing and pointing behind me.

I whip around, expecting a monster, but that's not it. It's one of those godawful screen things, and it's changed: the Four boy is dead.

"Wasn't he a Career?" I say. "Or with them, at least."

"Yeah," Atlas says uneasily. "I don't know what could've killed him."

"Something got the Two guy already," Des points out quietly.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe the Careers are fighting?" I suggest.

Atlas frowns. "You'd think there'd be more than one death, though. Maybe they just got sick of him."

Right on cue, the Two girl's name blinks out.

"Okay," I say slowly. "So either they're fighting, or they ran into something _really _nasty."

All three of us shift uncomfortably, and I think we're all remembering the metal thing in the dark that chased us together.

We watch the names for another few minutes. Just when I'm about to assume the excitement is over, the One boy's name goes out.

"God _damn, _that is morbid," Atlas mutters to himself.

"Says Mr. Rainbows and Sunshine himself."

"Yeah, well. Reyna's still out there."

I frown. "Yeah. And?"

"I dunno. Wasn't she kinda a nutcase? Running around bashing monsters' heads in with a rock?"

"Yeah, little bit. Her dad's a Peacekeeper. She's super gung-ho about the Capitol."

Atlas raises an eyebrow. "Still?"

"As far as I know."

"Huh."

Des is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, the pistol on her chest. She tried to give it to Atlas, I guess as a goodwill kind of thing. He told her to keep it. I'm not a hundred percent sure I agree with that decision, but I didn't protest.

I'm pretty sure Atlas will do whatever it takes to protect her. He just doesn't know it yet. Which doesn't put me in the best position, since I have no doubt that he'd sacrifice me to save her.

Would I sacrifice myself to save her? I have no idea. She's four years younger than me. How much more valuable does that make her life? What are her chances, really, even if I can spare her from one danger?

She's made it this far, I guess. Lived through monsters and Careers. She's an unlikely Victor, but not an impossible one.

I remember all at once that even if I _do _survive, I'm not getting my old life back. District Six doesn't win often. I'd probably be mentoring for the rest of my life, year after year, watching kids get dressed up and marched into the slaughterhouse. No matter what happens, my life was over as soon as the escort drew my name.

Maybe I'd be doing her a favor if I let her get ripped up by a monster.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I do still want to kill Luther slowly. But I also want to never, ever see her again, because no matter how much I hate her, she's got me terrified of her. When Kaya was pinning me down and Luther touched me, I felt like I was going to throw up. The thought of her makes my palms sweat.

I'm starting to realize that I can't beat her. She's smarter than me. She can make me sick with a look and I don't have the first clue how to hurt her. All I can do is run.

Except, oh wait, no I can't, thanks to a certain trigger-happy blond jackass. But I know she's going to come after me, and I refuse to just roll over and let her terrorize me. So I'm going to have to get creative.

I barely manage to snatch the strap of my backpack when the Careers implode and Amelia grabs me. I expect her to drag me to my feet. I'm impressed and more than a little turned on when she straight-up chucks me over her shoulder instead and runs off. She darts in front of Ash, and for a split second I find myself with the tip of his crossbow bolt a foot from my nose, but I guess he decides we're not worth shooting. Works for me. I give him a polite, upside-down wave good-bye, but I don't think he notices.

Amelia slows down as the clamor from behind us fades. She puts me down gently, which feels weird, because _gentle _is the last word I'd use to describe what usually happens after someone picks me up. Not that I was expecting her to slam me against a wall, exactly, but still. She just holds me for a second to make sure I've got my balance, then slings my bag onto her back and my arm around her shoulders.

"Um. Thank you," I say uncertainly. I'm not sure what the etiquette is for talking to someone who's saved my life twice in around two days.

"No problem. You okay?"

"Um…"

"That's a 'no.' What happened?"

I chew my lip. "Well, uh. Amaris kinda decided to beat the fuck out of me while you were gone."

Amelia blinks. "She _what?"_

"Ta-da." I pull my sleeve up ruefully, showing her the burns. They look even nastier than before. Definitely going to scar. I don't mind; it'll look roguish.

She looks more upset than I expected. "Why the hell…?"

"Long story."

"Tell me a short version."

"She called me bitch, so I threatened her with the soldering iron, and she didn't like that."

I'm expecting her to tell me off for overreacting, but she looks furious. At Amaris, not me, I'm pretty sure. Which makes me feel kind of nice. I can't remember the last time someone was genuinely concerned about me. Plenty of people act like it, sure, but there's always an ulterior motive. I don't think Amelia has one, and it's giving me a severe case of the warm and fuzzies.

Which makes me want to bang my head against the wall. What, so now I'm one of those cheesy romance novel chicks who falls for the first person who doesn't try to get in her pants because wow, what a goddamn novelty? No. Absolutely not. But when Amelia takes my wrist absentmindedly to get a better look at the burns, my stomach does a backflip.

At having my _wrist _touched. What the fuck? And I guess I was drawn to her long before she expressed anything like concern for me. She seemed… safe? Something like that. Like I couldn't fool her or charm her, but she'd have sympathy for me anyway and not write me off as either creepy or a toy. I can let her see me ugly-cry without the world ending.

"Is it just the burns?" Amelia asks, snapping me out of it.

"My ribs don't feel super. I think it's mostly just bruises, though. I'm fine."

"Hold still," she says, reaching out to feel along my ribs.

Of course I yelp and jump away, because it hurts like a motherfucker, plus it's way too similar to Luther on the train. So she managed to give me a straight-up phobia. Cool. Just fucking great. I am going to murder her to _death._

"Damn," Amelia says, frowning. "That feels broken. I wouldn't have picked you up like that if I knew; it could've gone through your lung. Were you ever planning on mentioning it if Merona hadn't started that?"

"No."

"Why?"

I hesitate, because I know she won't like my answer, but it's the truth. "That's the fourth fight I've lost to a girl since getting Reaped."

"So? Since when have you cared about being a good fighter?"

"Since I keep getting my ass kicked and it fucking hurts, that's when." Now I sound like a whiny five-year-old and I know it, but goddamn am I just about done with this whole Hunger Games thing. I don't know what I thought it would be like, but this isn't it. I didn't realize it would really, seriously _hurt. _And that I'd be scared.

Amelia unzips the backpack I grabbed. "Is there ammo in here? You can have the pistol if you want."

"… Really?"

"I mean, no offense, but I don't know what else you could use right now. And wouldn't you feel better if you had something?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

I have no idea how to articulate what I'm thinking without making things awkward. Why the hell would she trust me that much? Because she knows I know I need her, I guess. But why's she talking about making me _feel _better? Like she knows I'm about one jump scare away from breaking down in hysterical tears.

"Ariel?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are these here?" Amelia asks, pulling out the handcuffs and two bottles of painkillers. I stuck a gas mask I swiped from the supply pile in there too, but I guess that's self-explanatory.

I shrug and immediately regret it when it sends a jolt of pain through my ribs. "Well. Painkillers because I am in fact in pain. Speaking of which…"

I snatch the bottle, shake five or so pills into my hand, and gulp them down dry. Amelia gives me a Look, but doesn't stop me.

"And you never know when you'll need handcuffs," I continue.

"I don't think I've ever found myself needing handcuffs," she says doubtfully.

"Clearly we lead very different lives."

It's lucky my deviant tendencies set up the lie for me, because actually, they're not for me. Never again. They're for if a certain bony-assed sadistic psychopath forces my hand to… creativity.

"Okay," Amelia says slowly. "So. Now what?"

"If you don't have a plan, I wouldn't mind going back to the workshop."

"Sure. Why?" she asks, putting my arm over her shoulder again so I can walk without putting my full weight on the leg Ash shot.

"Because if I can find the right stuff, this Arena is all mine," I say with a smile even I realize it a little on the crazed side. "And I bet I can find the right stuff, now that I've got a Geiger counter and a good chance of not being caught and used as monster bait this time."

"What's the 'right stuff', exactly?"

"Preferably a certain isotope of plutonium. Uranium could work."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this."

"Trust me."

I don't expect the conversation to end there, but apparently she considers that a satisfactory answer. Why? What the fuck?

"Why'd you bring me with you, anyway?" I ask after a few minutes. "The counter was done. You don't need me."

"Maybe I want you around for your… what was it you said? Charming personality?"

"And stunning good looks," I remind her.

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Oh, don't lie to me, you know damn well I'm fucking gorgeous."

"If you say so."

"I _am!"_

"Sure."

"Hmph."

The next few minutes pass in silence, except me muttering swear words every few steps. Because ow. Ow. _Ow._

"Did that bother you?" I ask.

"Did what bother me?"

"You know. Me and Woohyun."

We pass one of the screens. A cold, heavy feeling settles in my stomach when I see Woohyun, Ash, and Merona greyed out. So Amaris came out victorious and is probably stalking around out there, and God only knows what she'll do to me if she gets me again. But Amelia won't let her.

Amelia hesitates. I'm tempted to give puppy-dog eyes a shot, but something tells me that won't fly anymore. I might've really blown it. Blown _what, _though? There was nothing to blow.

Well, no, there's always something to blow. Heh. But that's not the point right now. Focus, Ariel.

Amelia keeps looking straight ahead. "What right do I have to be mad at you?"

"Maybe not mad. But I didn't mean to make you upset. You can kiss me too if you want, would that help?"

"Ariel?"

"Yeah?"

"You know not all problems can be solved by letting people do what they want to you, right?"

I consider that. "Yeah, I know. I'm not exactly trying to end all hunger and disease by banging everyone in sight, you know? But it does seem to help with most interpersonal problems."

"Hmm," she says as we reach the workshop. Empty, thankfully. One of Caddis's half-finished dolls stares at us from a countertop.

"… You sure you don't want to kiss me, though?"

Amelia frowns. "Do you _want _me to kiss you?"

"It'd be nice."

I mean it. It doesn't even have to be a raunchy kiss. Hell, I'd settle for a hug. Or she could play with my hair if she wanted, or…

Okay, what the fuck is _with _me today? But I actually want that hug, I really do. This place seems fifty times creepier than I remember.

"I don't think this is a good time," Amelia finally says, poking around the dark room.

I wait patiently for her to hem and haw and change her mind. It doesn't sink in for a while that she's not going to. I realize with dismay that I'm really disappointed, and not just on a physical, I've-only-kissed-one-person-in-over-a-week-and-I'm-getting-twitchy level. I want her to want me. Maybe _want _isn't the right word for what I want her to do.

Something about her, that combination of empathy and gentleness and fiery danger, makes me want to be around her more than anyone else. I want her to feel the same way about me, but I'm not sure what about me she's supposed to like. I'm making a conscious effort to not do the airhead thing, but what else do I have? If I'm not the prize everyone wants, then what am I, other than a skinny, cringing coward? I'm trying to offer her something real, but I can't fucking _find_ it.

But I don't think it matters. She sees right through me. Has from the beginning. And whatever she sees, she thought I was worth saving, and it feels like being handed a kitten when I expected a slap in the face.

I can't deny it anymore. The worst possible thing has happened: I've caught a bad case of the feelings.

**In which Foaly attempts to move a relationship along by 3295732857% in one scene.**


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